Chapter 17- PHOENIX
The doorbell rings at nine in the morning, and I know before I even check the camera who it is.
My father doesn't call ahead. He never has. Nicholas Crawford operates on the assumption that his time is more valuable than everyone else's, and that his presence is always welcome. Usually, he's right. Today, I'm not so sure.
I've been awake for hours, showered and dressed in slacks and a button-down despite having nowhere to go. The house is clean, the bottles hidden, the evidence of my multi-day spiral carefully erased. Whatever happens next, I refuse to let my father see me weak.
I open the door and find him standing on the threshold in an understated charcoal suit. His silver hair is swept back from his face, his face freshly shaved, his eyes sharp and assessing as they sweep over me. Looking for cracks. Looking for weakness.
He won't find any. Not today.
"Father." I step aside to let him in. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Clearly." He walks past me into the living room, his shoes clicking against the hardwood floors. The smell of his cologne follows him, something expensive and woodsy that I've associated with power and control since I was a child. "You look better than I expected."
"Sorry to disappoint."
He doesn't smile. Nicholas Crawford rarely smiles, and when he does, it's never a good sign.
He settles onto my leather couch like he owns the place, which, technically, he does.
The property is in my name, but the money that bought it came from him.
Everything I have came from him, one way or another.
"Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?"
"This isn't a social visit, Phoenix."
I knew that already. I could tell from the set of his shoulders, the tension in his face, the way his eyes keep scanning the room like he's noting every detail. My father is many things, but subtle isn't one of them.
I sit down in the chair across from him, keeping my posture relaxed, my expression neutral. Whatever he's about to say, I need to be ready for it.
"I've been doing some digging," he begins. "Into Marcus Webb's disappearance."
The words land like a punch to the gut, but I don't let it show. I keep my breathing steady, my hands loose on the armrests, my face a careful mask of mild curiosity.
"I thought the police were handling that."
"The police are incompetent." Nicholas waves a dismissive hand. "I have resources they don't. And I have a vested interest in making sure this situation doesn't blow back on our family."
"What kind of resources?"
"The kind that can access cell tower records." His eyes lock onto mine, cold and calculating. "Marcus's phone pinged a tower near our cabin the same day his car was found abandoned. The same day you were there with that girl."
I can hear the ocean outside, the endless rhythm of the waves that usually calms me. Right now, it sounds like white noise.
"I know you were at the cabin when Marcus disappeared," Nicholas continues. "What I don't know is why. And I need you to tell me. Now."
I consider my options. I could lie. I could deny everything, claim the cell tower data is wrong, insist I have no idea what happened to Marcus Webb. My father might even believe me, or at least pretend to.
But Nicholas Crawford didn't build an empire by being fooled easily.
He's spent his entire life reading people, manipulating them, staying three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
If I lie to him now and he finds out later, the consequences will be far worse than whatever punishment the truth might bring.
And there's another consideration. One I don't like to admit, even to myself.
I need his help.
The body is buried in frozen ground that's starting to thaw. The police are asking questions. Dominic Webb is out there somewhere, grieving his brother, looking for answers. Sooner or later, someone is going to find something. And when they do, I need to have a plan.
My father has spent forty years making problems disappear. If anyone can help me navigate this situation, it's him.
"He came to the cabin." The words come out flat, emotionless. I've practiced this in my head a thousand times, but saying it out loud is different. Harder.
Nicholas's expression doesn't change. "Why?"
"He was angry with me because of the investors pulling out. But I wasn’t there.
She was. He blamed her for what had happened.
I didn't realize how dangerous he was until it was too late.
" I pause, forcing myself to meet my father's eyes.
"He broke in while I was in the other room.
By the time I got there, he had her pinned against the wall.
His hands around her throat. He was going to… rape her."
Something flickers in Nicholas's gaze. Not sympathy, exactly. But something close to understanding. Recognition, maybe. Of what it feels like to see someone you love in danger.
"And?" His voice is carefully neutral.
"I stopped him."
"Stopped him how?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I think about all the ways I could answer. All the euphemisms I could use to soften the truth, to make it sound less brutal than it was.
But my father doesn't want euphemisms. He wants facts.
"Permanently."
Nicholas is silent for a long moment. I watch his face, searching for some reaction, some indication of what he's thinking. But his expression remains impassive, a mask of control that I've spent my whole life trying to replicate.
Finally, he speaks.
"Where's the body?"
Not how could you or what were you thinking or do you understand what you've done. Just where's the body. Practical. Efficient. Focused on the problem that needs solving rather than the moral implications of how we got here.
In that moment, I understand my father better than I ever have before.
"Angeles National Forest. About two miles from the cabin, off the main trail." I give him the coordinates, the same ones I memorized that night when I drove Marcus's body into the wilderness and dug a grave in the frozen ground with my bare hands. "It's shallow. The ground was too hard to go deep."
Nicholas nods slowly, processing the information. "And the car?"
"I left it on a pullout about ten miles from the cabin. Wiped it down, wore gloves the whole time." I pause. "The police found it a few days later."
"Any evidence linking you to the scene?"
"I was careful. I bleached for the cabin floor. I burned the clothes I was wearing."
"The girl knows?"
"Jade." I hear the edge in my own voice and force myself to soften it. "Her name is Jade. And yes, she knows. She was there when it happened."
"Can she be trusted?"
The question makes my body tense. "She's not going to talk, if that's what you're asking."
"That's exactly what I'm asking." Nicholas leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes boring into mine.
"You've put this entire family at risk for a woman you've known for a few months.
If that. I need to know that she understands the stakes.
That she's not going to crack under pressure and bring us all down with her. "
"She won't."
"You sound very certain."
"I am."
Nicholas studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sits back, a ghost of something that might be satisfaction crossing his features.
"You love her."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
"Enough to kill for her."
"Obviously."
"Enough to die for her?"
I don't hesitate. "Yes."
My father is quiet again. Between us there is nothing but the sound of waves and the distant cry of seagulls. When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Softer, somehow. Almost paternal.
"I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, Phoenix.
Done things I'm not proud of. Things that would send most men to prison for the rest of their lives.
" He pauses, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"But I was always careful. Calculated. I never killed anyone who didn't deserve it, and I never left evidence behind. You understand the difference?”
Breath gets stuck in the back of my throat.
I stare at my father, really seeing him for the first time.
The silver hair, the expensive suit, the commanding presence I've known my entire life.
I thought I knew who Nicholas Crawford was.
A businessman. An investor. A man who built an empire through shrewd deals and careful negotiations.
But this man just admitted to killing people.
"What are you talking about?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "What do you mean, you never killed anyone who didn't deserve it?”
Nicholas's expression shutters closed. The brief glimpse of vulnerability, of shared confession, disappears behind the mask he wears so well.
"I had a life before your mother. Before you." He straightens his jacket, a gesture I've seen a thousand times, one that signals the conversation is ending whether I want it to or not. "A different life.”
"What kind of life?”
"The kind we're not going to discuss right now." His voice is steel wrapped in silk. "Not when you've got a body buried in the mountains and detectives asking questions.”
I want to push. I want to demand answers about who my father really is, what he did before he became the man I know.
My whole life, there have been gaps in his history, questions he deflected, topics that were off limits.
I assumed it was just privacy. The natural reticence of a powerful man who didn't like to dwell on the past.
Now I'm wondering what else I don't know.
"We'll talk about it someday," Nicholas says, reading my expression.
"When this is all over. When you and your girl are safe.
" He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
"For now, just know that I understand what you're going through better than you think.
And I'm not going to let my son face it alone.”
"I understand."
"Good." He stands abruptly, smoothing the front of his jacket. "I'll take care of the body. Have it moved somewhere more secure. I have people who handle these things discreetly."
I stand as well, my legs feeling strangely unsteady. "Dad, I didn't ask for your help."
"No. You didn't." He turns to face me, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. Pride, maybe. Or approval. "But you're my son. And we protect their own."
He walks toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
"The girl. Jade." He doesn't turn around. "Bring her to dinner next week. Your mother wants to meet her properly, without all the chaos of the cocktail party. And please avoid having sex in your mom’s library, can you do that?”
My cheeks start to burn.
“Jade’s back home in Boston,” I say clearing my throat.
"Then get her back." He opens the door, letting in a rush of salt air and morning light. "Whatever you have to do."
He leaves without another word, and I stand in the empty doorway, watching his car pull away down the winding driveway. My heart is pounding, adrenaline flooding my system even though the danger has passed.
My father knows. He knows what I did, and instead of condemning me, he's offering to help cover it up. To make the evidence disappear. To protect me the way he's protected himself and our family for decades.
I should feel relieved. Grateful, even.
Instead, I feel something else entirely. Something that tastes like power and smells like blood.
I killed a man. And my father's response wasn't horror or disgust. It was practical questions about evidence disposal and a dinner invitation.
This is what it means to be a Crawford. This is the legacy I've inherited, the darkness that runs through our bloodline like poison through veins.
For the first time in my life, I'm not sure if that's a curse or a gift.
I close the door and pull out my phone. Jade's name glows on the screen, and I stare at it for a long moment before typing out a message.
When you're ready to come home, I'll be here.
Then I set the phone down on the counter and pour myself a drink.
Not because I need it but because I want to celebrate.
My father knows the truth, and he's chosen to stand with me. Jade is coming back, even if she doesn't know it yet. And Marcus Webb is going to disappear so completely that no one will ever find him.
This is what it feels like to win.
I raise my glass to the empty room and take a long, slow sip.