Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lina
The first thing I noticed when I woke was the weight of John’s arm draped across my waist.
Heavy. Possessive. Anchoring me to the bed. The second thing I noticed was the warm sunlight filtering through the curtains, and I moaned. Looking over at the clock on my nightstand, I noticed the time, then groaned.
I turned my head carefully, not wanting to wake him.
He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way I rarely saw when he was awake.
The hard lines around his mouth had softened.
His breathing was deep and even, as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. Almost peaceful.
I wanted to stay. Wanted to curl back into his warmth and pretend the world outside this bed didn’t exist. But I couldn’t. I had work to do.
Carefully, I slid out from under his arm, holding my breath as I eased myself to the edge of the mattress. The bed creaked softly, and I froze, my eyes darting back to John’s face.
He didn’t stir.
I exhaled slowly and stood, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.
My clothes were scattered across the room.
Evidence of our last few hours of desperation.
I gathered them quietly, pulling on my jeans and buttoning my shirt with trembling fingers.
My body ached in places I had forgotten could ache.
My thighs were sore. My hips were bruised from his grip.
My lips were swollen from his kisses, and God help me, I could still feel him inside me.
Still felt the way he claimed me, over and over, like he was trying to brand himself into my skin.
I shook my head, forcing the memories away as I grabbed my laptop from the dresser and slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
The hallway was quiet. Tatum’s door was open—no doubt at school, and my father was more than likely already at his physical therapy appointment in town.
The house was empty. Just me and the silence.
I made my way downstairs, the old wooden steps creaking under my weight.
The farmhouse smelled like coffee and something faintly floral from the wildflowers Tatum had picked yesterday and left in a jar on the kitchen counter.
The kitchen was bathed in muted light, the kind that made everything softer, gentler.
I set my laptop on the kitchen table and went to pour myself a cup of coffee.
Black. Strong. The way I had learned to drink it during late nights in law school when sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I took a sip, letting the heat and bitterness ground me, then sat down at the table and opened my laptop as the screen glowed to life, casting a pale blue light across my face.
I stared at the blank document for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then I started typing.
Case: Oklahoma v. John Smith
Charge: Sexual Assault / Rape
Alleged Victim: Ruby Cooper
Evidence:
Victim’s statement to Chief Sean Curran O’Rourke
Rape kit completed at Comanche County Hospital
Photographic evidence of injuries (bruising, lacerations)
No witnesses to the alleged assault
Defense Strategy:
I paused, my jaw tightening. This was a classic “he said, she said” case. The kind that could go either way depending on the jury, the prosecutor, and how well I could dismantle the victim’s credibility, but there was one thing that could end this before it ever went to trial.
DNA. If the DNA recovered from the rape kit didn’t match John’s, the case would collapse.
But if it did... I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.
It won’t match. It can’t match. John had admitted to sleeping with Ruby before—weeks ago, at the clubhouse party. But he’d sworn he hadn’t touched her the night she claimed he raped her.
I believed him. I had to believe him, but belief wasn’t enough in the courtroom. I needed evidence. I needed proof, and I needed to find out what the hell was really going on.
I opened my email and started a new message.
To: ntripplethorne@
Subject: Need a favor
I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keys.
Nicola Tripplethorne, also known as “Mischief,” to those who knew her well enough, was one of the best investigators I had ever worked with. We met during my time at the San Francisco DA’s office, back when I was still green and idealistic and thought the system actually worked.
Mischief had been the one to show me how the system really worked. How to find the truth buried under layers of lies, corruption, and bureaucratic red tape.
She was brilliant. Ruthless. And she didn’t ask questions she didn’t need answers to.
If anyone could help me, it was her.
I started typing.
Mischief,
I need your help. I’m defending someone on a rape charge in Oklahoma.
The case stinks. The victim’s story has holes, the timing doesn’t add up, and I think someone’s pulling strings behind the scenes.
I need you to dig into the victim’s financials, phone records, anything that might show she was paid or coerced into making the accusation.
Victim’s name: Ruby Cooper. DOB: 03/15/1996. Last known address: Lawton, OK.
Let me know what you find.
—L
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then I sat back in my chair and took another sip of coffee, staring at the screen as I waited.
Mischief was usually quick to respond—she lived on her computer, her fingers always flying across the keyboard, chasing down leads and unraveling conspiracies, but I couldn’t guarantee she wasn’t away, working a case. So I forced myself to be patient.
I opened another tab and started researching Oklahoma’s rape shield laws, the rules of evidence for sexual assault cases, and the precedents that might help or hurt John’s defense.
I was three pages deep into a case summary when my laptop chimed.
New email from ntripplethorne@
I clicked it open immediately.
Lina,
You always did know how to pick the interesting cases. Give me two hours. I’ll call you.
—M
I exhaled slowly, some of the tension in my shoulders easing.
Two hours. I could work with that. I spent the next hour and forty-five minutes building out my defense strategy, drafting motions to suppress evidence, and preparing questions for Ruby’s deposition, if we ever got that far, but my mind kept drifting to John.
To the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the Earth.
To the way he whispered I love you against my skin, over and over, like a prayer.
To the way he promised me that no matter what happened, I was his.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him, but I learned a long time ago that wanting something didn’t make it true.
My phone buzzed on the table, jolting me out of my thoughts, and I answered immediately, putting the call on speaker. “Mischief.”
“Lina.” Her voice was sharp and clear, with that faint edge of amusement she always carried. “You weren’t kidding about this case being interesting.”
I leaned forward, my heart pounding. “What did you find?”
“A lot,” she said. “And none of it good for your client.”
I grabbed a pen and a notepad, ready to take notes. “Talk to me.”
“Ruby Cooper,” Mischief began, her tone shifting into the clipped, professional cadence she used when she was laying out evidence. “Twenty-nine years old. Works part-time at a bar in Lawton. No criminal record. No history of filing false reports. On paper, she looks clean.”
“But?” I prompted.
“But her bank account tells a different story.”
I felt my pulse quicken. “What kind of story?”
“One week before your guy was arrested, Ruby received a deposit of ten thousand dollars.”
I froze, my pen hovering over the notepad. “Ten thousand?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yep. Wired transfer. I traced it back to a shell company registered in Delaware. One of those generic LLCs that exists solely to hide the real source of the money.”
“And?” I prompted, my throat tight.
“And I kept digging,” Mischief said. “Took me a while, but I finally cracked it. The shell company is owned by a man named James Roberts.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. James Roberts.
John’s WITSEC handler. The man who’d been threatening him, blackmailing him, interrogating him at the courthouse and who was also trying to force him back into witness protection. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Positive,” Mischief said. “I pulled his financial records. Don’t ask me how, and the payment to Ruby Cooper came directly from an account he controls.”
I closed my eyes, my mind racing.
Roberts paid her. He paid her to accuse John of rape.
“There’s more,” Mischief continued, her tone darkening. “I pulled Roberts’ personnel file from the U.S. Marshals Service. Your guy’s family case? It’s been closed for years. There’s no active threat. No reason for him to still be in WITSEC.”
“Then why—”
“Because Roberts isn’t working alone,” Mischief interrupted. “He’s been coordinating with a woman named Sylvia St. James. Lina, that bitch is bad news. She’s untouchable. Has connections everywhere, and I mean fucking everywhere. She has a hard-on for the Biker Federation.”
My stomach dropped.
“Roberts has been using your guy’s connection to the Diamondback MC, more specifically Kansas Stone’s connection to the Soulless Sinners in New York, to gather intel on the Federation,” Mischief explained. “He’s been feeding information to St. James for years.”
I felt sick.
“But here’s where it gets really fucked up,” Mischief said, her voice low and dangerous. “Roberts deleted all his personal communications: texts, emails, phone logs. He thought he had his tracks covered.”
“But?” I prompted, my heart pounding.
“But he forgot about his cloud backup.”
I sat up straighter, my breath catching.
“I accessed his cloud account,” Mischief continued. “And, Lina, it’s all there. Months of recorded conversations. Text messages between him and St. James. Him and Ruby. Him coaching her on what to say to the police. Specific details about times, locations, and what to report.”
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.
“It gets worse,” Mischief said grimly. “Roberts didn’t just pay Ruby to lie. He hired someone to actually assault her.”
The room tilted. “What?” I breathed.
“A registered sex offender named Marcus Lyle,” Mischief said. “Roberts paid him five thousand dollars to rape Ruby and make it look real. There are text messages between them. Bank transfers. Everything.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Roberts orchestrated the entire thing. He paid a sex offender to rape Ruby so she could credibly accuse John.
“Lina?” Mischief’s voice cut through the fog. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “I’m here.”
“I’m sending you everything,” Mischief said. “Copies of the deposits. Text message threads. The communications between Roberts and Marcus Lyle. All of it.”
“Thank you,” I said, my hands shaking. “Mischief, I—”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she interrupted. “This is big, Lina. Federal prosecutor big. If you go after Roberts with this, you’re going to make some very powerful enemies. And that’s not mentioning that St. James bitch. Stay the fuck away from her.”
“I don’t care about her,” I said, my voice hardening. “Roberts tried to destroy an innocent man. He paid someone to rape a woman just to frame him. I’m taking him down.”
Mischief was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed. A low, dark sound. “That’s my girl,” she said. “Go get him.”
The line went dead.
I sat there in the quiet kitchen, staring at my laptop screen as email after email from Mischief flooded my inbox. Bank statements. Text message screenshots. Recorded phone conversations. Communications between Roberts and Marcus Lyle.
All of it. Every piece of evidence I needed to prove John’s innocence and to expose Roberts’ conspiracy.
I opened the first file. A screenshot of a text message thread between Roberts and Ruby.
Roberts: You need to be convincing. Tears. Fear. Make them believe you.
Ruby: What if they ask questions I can’t answer?
Roberts: Stick to the script. He assaulted you in his room at the clubhouse. You said no. He didn’t stop. That’s all you need to say.
Ruby: What about the rape kit?
Roberts: Already taken care of. Just do your part.
I felt bile rise in my throat.
I opened another file. A bank transfer confirmation, dated one week before John’s arrest.
From: James Roberts
To: Ruby Cooper
Amount: $10,000.00
Then another. A text message between Roberts and Marcus Lyle.
Roberts: I need you to do a job for me.
Lyle: What kind of job?
Roberts: The kind that pays five thousand dollars and requires discretion.
Lyle: I’m listening.
Roberts: There’s a woman. I need you to assault her. Make it look real. Bruises. Trauma. Enough to hold up in court.
Lyle: When?
Roberts: Tonight.
I closed my eyes, my hands clenching into fists.
He did this. Roberts orchestrated everything. He paid Ruby to lie. He hired a rapist to assault her. He framed John for a crime he didn’t commit. All to force John back into WITSEC. All to keep using him as a pawn in his war against the Biker Federation.
I opened my eyes and stared at the screen. All the evidence laid out before me like a roadmap. I had everything I needed. Everything to clear John’s name. Everything to expose Roberts. Everything to destroy him.
I picked up my phone and started typing a message to Chief O’Rourke. Then I stopped.
I needed to be smart about this. Strategic. If I went to O’Rourke now, Roberts would know. He would cover his tracks. Destroy evidence. Disappear.
I needed to move carefully. Methodically. I needed to build an airtight case that Roberts couldn’t wriggle out of.
I closed my laptop and sat back in my chair, staring out the kitchen window at the fields beyond as the sun painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, and I thought about John, still asleep upstairs.
About Tatum, at school, safe and happy. About my father, at physical therapy, fighting to get stronger. About the life we were trying to build together.
And I made a promise to myself. I’m going to protect them. All of them. No matter what it takes.
I stood, poured myself another cup of coffee, and opened my laptop again.
I had work to do, and I wasn’t stopping until James Roberts paid for what he had done.