Chapter 21
Jalen
I didn't tell Mars the real reason I left her house that morning.
When my phone rang just after sunrise, the harsh vibration cutting through the quiet bedroom, I recognized the name flashing across the screen before I even picked it up.
Daniel Whitaker.
The call had come much sooner than I expected, instantly shattering the peaceful bubble we’d built.
I quietly slipped out of bed, hyper-aware of every rustle of the sheets, careful not to wake Mars.
I stepped out into the carpeted hallway and closed the door behind me before finally pressing the phone to my ear.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Jalen,” Whitaker replied, and I immediately recognized the heavy, unyielding seriousness in his voice.
“I need you to come into the office as soon as you can.”
My stomach tightened into a hard knot, the post-game high from the night before evaporating in an instant.
“Is this about Darren?”
There was a brief, agonizing pause on the other end of the line.
“Yes.”
He didn't say another word.
He didn't have to.
I ended the call and stood frozen in the dim hallway for several seconds before slowly walking back into the bedroom.
Mars was still fast asleep beneath the heavy comforter, one arm tucked comfortably beneath her pillow, completely unaware that the morning had already drastically changed.
The soft sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains caught the dark curls scattered across the white pillowcase, and for just a fleeting moment, I completely forgot about Whitaker, the media, and why I had left the room in the first place.
I considered waking her.
I considered sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling her into my arms, and telling her everything.
But if Whitaker had actually uncovered what I believed he had, I couldn't bring myself to drag her right back into that suffocating nightmare, not until I knew exactly what we were dealing with.
She had fought too hard to find her peace.
She deserved absolute certainty.
Not more terrifying speculation.
So when she woke up a short time later, blinking sleepily against the morning light, and asked why I was leaving so early, I gave her the only believable answer I could summon.
“I need to get home and start getting ready for the game.”
She smiled, a soft, groggy expression that twisted the knife in my chest, before leaning forward to press a warm kiss against my cheek.
“Don't get hurt today,” she reminded me softly.
The guilt settled heavily in my chest the exact moment I walked out her front door and heard the lock click into place.
I hated lying to her.
I hated that I couldn't tell her where I was going, or who I was meeting.
More than anything, I absolutely hated that the man responsible for all of this chaos had successfully forced me to keep another massive secret from the only woman I cared about.
Downtown Houston was already beginning to fill with the steady crawl of game-day traffic by the time I reached the stark, glass facade of the Whitaker Building.
The air was crisp, but the looming skyscrapers felt claustrophobic.
I navigated the secure parking garage, took the private elevator up, and stepped out into the pristine corporate lobby.
The receptionist barely looked up from her monitor, her voice practiced and clinical.
“Mr. Whitaker is expecting you, Mr. Carter.
Go right on back.”
His assistant met me outside the elevator and quietly escorted me toward one of the private conference rooms instead of his office.
That immediately told me this wasn't an ordinary meeting.
Whitaker was already standing when I walked in.
His suit jacket rested across the back of a chair, his sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, and several thick folders covered nearly the entire conference table.
Legal pads filled with handwritten notes sat beside them, and a large whiteboard displayed a timeline connected by names, dates, and arrows.
The room looked less like a law office and more like the headquarters of an active investigation.
"You got here quickly," Whitaker said.
"You sounded like I needed to."
"I did."
He motioned toward the chair across from him.
I sat down while he remained standing for another moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking.
"I had my investigators begin quietly reviewing Darren Hill the same day you came to see me," he said.
"I assumed as much."
"I want you to understand something before we go any further."
He rested both hands on the conference table.
"When someone has spent thirty years building a public reputation like Darren Hill has, we don't begin by looking for proof of a crime."
I nodded.
"We begin by looking for patterns."
He opened the first folder.
"Patterns have a way of leaving fingerprints long before they leave evidence."
He slid several documents toward me.
I expected police reports.
There weren't any.
Instead, I found timelines.
Employment records.
Travel schedules.
Former assistants.
Event guest lists.
Names highlighted in yellow.
"This isn't evidence," Whitaker explained. "This is a roadmap."
I looked back up.
"What did you find?"
He took a slow breath.
"We found whispers."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means Darren Hill has been surrounded by the same rumors for nearly twenty years."
Whitaker flipped open another folder.
"We located three former production assistants who independently described him as someone female staff members were warned to avoid after private events."
Another page followed.
"We found two women who quietly retained attorneys years ago but ultimately declined to pursue civil litigation."
Another.
"We identified nondisclosure agreements connected to unrelated employment disputes that, while perfectly legal, raise enough questions that I intend to examine them more closely."
He met my eyes.
"Nothing I've shown you proves he assaulted anyone."
"But..."
"But none of these women know each other."
The room fell silent.
"They worked in different cities."
He turned another page.
"They worked during different years."
Another page.
"They came from completely different backgrounds."
He closed the file.
"And despite all of that, they described remarkably similar behavior."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"What kind of behavior?"
Whitaker didn't answer immediately.
"He isolated women."
The words hung in the room.
"He used his status to gain trust."
"He deliberately placed himself in situations where witnesses were limited."
"He crossed small boundaries first to see what he could get away with."
"He relied on the assumption that no one would ever believe an unknown woman over a Hall of Fame athlete."
Every sentence made my stomach turn.
Finally, Whitaker looked directly at me.
"There is one thing every investigator eventually learns about men like Darren Hill."
I waited.
"They almost never do it only once."
The room became painfully quiet.
For the first time since Mars trusted me with the truth, I allowed myself to consider something I had desperately hoped wasn't real.
She might not have been the only one.
Whitaker folded his hands together.
"If Darren Hill has spent decades believing he was untouchable, then eventually someone is going to prove him wrong."
I looked down at the files spread across the table before me.
For the first time, I wasn't looking at rumors.
I was looking at the beginning of a pattern.
And patterns...
...had a way of becoming impossible to ignore.
Locations.
Dates.
Employment records.
Conference schedules.
Private investigator summaries.
My eyes moved across each page while my jaw tightened a little more with every document I read.
None of the women knew one another.
None of them had worked together.
None of them had anything in common except one name.
Darren Hill.
Whitaker watched me quietly before finally speaking.
"We found three women."
I immediately looked up.
"Three?"
He nodded once.
"Three women were willing to speak with us after my investigators earned their trust."
"How did they even find them?"
"They didn't start by looking for victims."
He folded his hands together.
"They started by reconstructing Darren Hill's professional life over the last twenty years."
He slid another folder toward me.
"My investigators interviewed former producers, executive assistants, event coordinators, hotel managers, conference organizers, drivers, and staff members who worked events where Darren was present."
I looked back down at the files.
"One conversation led to another," Whitaker continued. "One name led to another name, and eventually someone quietly admitted there had always been rumors."
He paused before continuing.
"That woman introduced us to someone else."
Another pause.
"She introduced us to another."
He looked directly at me.
"That is how patterns reveal themselves."
I slowly turned another page.
Each woman had told a different story.
The years were different.
The cities were different.
The circumstances were different.
The pattern wasn't.
Every encounter began the same way.
Professional admiration.
Private conversations.
Alcohol.
An offer to continue talking somewhere quieter.
Then isolation.
Then violence.
My stomach twisted.
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Mars hadn't simply crossed paths with a monster.
She had crossed paths with a man who had apparently spent years perfecting the same routine.
I closed the folder.
"Does he know?"
Whitaker shook his head.
"Not yet."
"Do the women want to file criminal charges?"
"They want accountability."
He opened another file.
"Whether that accountability comes through criminal prosecution, civil litigation, or public exposure will ultimately depend on the evidence and the District Attorney's review."
He pointed toward another stack of documents.
"We're preparing everything now."
I looked down at the organized files spread across the conference table.
Every statement had been documented.
Every timeline had been cross-referenced.
Every witness had been interviewed more than once.
"This is real," I said quietly.
Whitaker nodded.
"It is."
He leaned back in his chair.