34. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
Reid
Home looks the same.
I got in late last night exhausted from travel, from everything. Slept twelve hours straight. Showered. Put on clothes that don’t smell like Scottish wilderness or hotel rooms or… Sulla.
At two the next afternoon, Mom is waiting in the memory care lobby. She hugs me tight, too tight.
“Reid! I'm so glad you're back. A whole month—I know you said you couldn't say more, but I worried—"”
“I’ll explain later. How’s Dad?”
Her face shifts. “Good actually. But something strange happened.” She pulls me toward the administrative office. “The facility called this morning. Anonymous donation. Five years of care. Paid in full.”
The world tilts.
“What?”
She shows me the paperwork.
Anonymous Donor. Amount: $300,000. Allocation: Harold Donahue -- Memory Care -- Five Years Prepaid. Source: Untraceable.
My hands are shaking. “Who would do this?”
“Someone from your military days? A grateful client?”
I want to say Sulla. But that’s impossible. He won fifty thousand dollars. This is three hundred thousand. Six times what he won. Where would a Roman gladiator living at a sanctuary get that kind of money?
Except who else would donate anonymously to my father’s care? Who else even knows about Dad? I barely mentioned him on camera. Only Sulla heard that conversation.
Well. Sulla and the entire production crew.
“Maybe someone from the training program,” I manage.
Mom studies my face. “They left specific instructions. No acknowledgment. No contact. Just, take care of him.” Her eyes shine. “Five years, Reid.”
I nod. Can’t speak.
Upstairs, Dad is having a good day. He smiles when I enter. Doesn’t remember me, but he’s happy for company. I push his wheelchair into the garden and hold his hand and listen to the same story about Mom from forty years ago that I’ve heard many times before.
He’s safe here. For five years.
Because someone paid three hundred thousand dollars and asked for nothing in return.
When I get home, I call Matt Belcher, an Army friend turned forensic accountant. If anyone can follow money, it’s him.
“I need you to look at a donation. Three hundred thousand. Anonymous.”
I send the paperwork. An hour later, my phone rings.
“Reid.” A slow exhale. “This wasn’t sloppy.”
“Meaning?”
“It came through a private legal firm. Funded by a trust or donor-advised account. The facility only sees the firm’s name. The firm won’t disclose the client. That’s protected.”
“So you can’t trace it.”
“I could push harder. Subpoena records. Burn a lot of money and time. But unless there’s a crime involved, this is designed not to be penetrated.” A pause. “Whoever did this knew exactly how to give without leaving a trail.”
I thank him and hang up.
Can’t prove it was Sulla. But I can’t stop thinking about the money. He won fifty thousand. This was three hundred thousand. That gap has been nagging at me since the moment I saw the paperwork.
I open my laptop. Type, “Roman gladiators frozen ice Norway” and let the articles load.
The story is everywhere—CNN, BBC, academic journals, breathless archaeology blogs. Fourteen men recovered from a Roman merchant vessel in the Norwegian Sea. Preserved. Alive. And the ship’s cargo: two chests of gold, recovered alongside them.
I read until I find the detail I was looking for. Laura Turner, the archaeologist who discovered them, set up a private sanctuary and established trust funds for each man from the proceeds of the recovered gold. Fourteen men. Two chests of Roman gold.
I sit back.
Of course. He didn’t spend his prize money. He has a trust. He’s independently wealthy—has been since the moment Laura Turner filed the salvage paperwork.
Can’t prove it was Sulla who gave the money to the nursing home.
But I know.
So why make it anonymous? Why untraceable?
Not manipulation. Can’t manipulate with a gift no one knows you gave.
Not buying forgiveness. Can’t buy forgiveness that way either.
Which leaves only one answer, he did it because it was right. Because he knew my father’s care was my biggest fear and he wanted to fix it. Expecting nothing in return.
That’s not a monster.
That’s someone who genuinely cares.
I think about the bothy. The way he touched me like I was precious. The Latin whispered against my skin.
Did you mean it? Mea lux. Mea vita. Did you mean it?
Every word.
Maybe he did.
The next morning Dad recognizes me. It’s one of his good days. I push his wheelchair into the garden, and he squeezes my hand and asks about my work.
“You seem troubled, sweetheart,” he says.
“Just work stuff, Dad.”
“Is it a man?”
My smile falters. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I know that look. That’s the look your mother had when she was deciding whether to forgive me for being an idiot.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever he did, the answer is usually simpler than you think.”
“What if he’s complicated?”
“Everyone’s complicated. Question is: does the good outweigh the bad? And if it doesn’t yet, is he trying to change the balance?”
I stare at this man who won’t remember me tomorrow but sees right through me today.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Then maybe you need more time to figure it out or more evidence one way or the other.”
Mom calls that evening.
“Reid. Thank you. For whatever you did. Whoever you know who made this happen.”
“I didn’t—”
“You had something to do with it. I know you did.” Her voice cracks. “Tell them they saved us. Tell them I can sleep at night now.”
After we hang up, I sit in the dark with that.
Tell them they saved us.
How do you thank someone who broke your trust and then gave everything anonymously? How do you stay angry at someone you can’t even confront?
I don’t know.
One week until the first episode airs. Twelve weeks of episodes, then one week before the reunion tapes. Fourteen weeks until I see him again.
I’m still angry. Still heartbroken. Still don’t know if what he was can be outweighed by what he’s trying to be.
There’s something else in the mix too, something I’ve been pushing down since the plane ride home from Scotland when I had a moment to think: anger at Bethany Gayle and everyone at Elite Crucible who sat on that footage.
They knew. They had the documentary material weeks before I did.
They timed the reveal for maximum destruction—handed it to me the morning of the finale, an hour before a forty-eight-hour challenge that required complete trust in my partner.
They manufactured the collapse. Packaged Sulla’s worst self, delivered it like a grenade, and then filmed what happened next.
I did their job for them. Made exactly the decision they were counting on at that river crossing. And my father came within a year of losing his care because I let production weaponize my emotions at the worst possible moment.
I’m not letting them off the hook for that. And I’m not letting myself off the hook either. Bethany Gayle got her ratings moment. I hope it was worth it.