Chapter 13 Thirteen

Chapter 13 Thirteen
The lawyer's office was in a nondescript building downtown, the kind of place that screamed "barely scraping by." I found Brodie waiting in the lobby, looking thinner than the last time I'd seen him, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

"Hey," he said, standing when he saw me.

"Hey." I hugged him briefly, feeling how much weight he'd lost. "You okay?"

"Been better." He tried to smile. "Thanks for coming."

The lawyer, a middle-aged man named David Grant, was surprisingly competent despite the shabby office. He walked us through what to expect at trial, the questions I might be asked, how to present Brodie in the best light.

"The prosecution is going to paint your brother as a habitual drug user with a history of poor decisions," Chen explained. "We need to counter that with evidence of his character—his relationships, his attempts to get clean, the people who believe in him."

"That's where you come in," Brodie said, looking at me. "You're the one person who's never given up on me."

The guilt was suffocating. Because hadn't I given up? Hadn't I spent the past few weeks so focused on my own problems that I'd barely thought about what Brodie was going through?

"Tell me about the evidence," I said to Chen. "How strong is the prosecution's case?"

"Strong enough to bring charges, but not airtight. They have surveillance footage of Brodie in the vicinity of several drug transactions, phone records connecting him to known dealers, and testimony from an informant. But there's no physical evidence—no drugs found on him, no money, nothing concrete."

"Because I wasn't involved," Brodie said. "I was there, yes. I knew what was happening, yes. But I wasn't trafficking. I was just... around the wrong people at the wrong time."

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. But I'd heard similar explanations before, and they'd always turned out to be partial truths at best.

"The informant is the real problem," Chen continued. "He's claiming Brodie was the middleman, connecting buyers and sellers. If the jury believes him, your brother will be convicted."

"So what do we do?"

"We discredit the informant. He has a record, he's been caught lying before, and he's testifying in exchange for a reduced sentence on his own charges. We'll make the jury see that he has every reason to lie."

The meeting lasted another hour. By the end, my head was spinning with information, and my stomach was in knots. Brodie's freedom rested on so many variables, so many things that could go wrong.

After we left the office, Brodie and I walked to a nearby coffee shop. We ordered drinks and sat in silence for a few minutes.

"I'm scared, Bella," he said finally.

"I know."

"If I go to prison..." He swallowed hard. "I don't think I'll survive it. Not with my history, not with my... issues."

"You're not going to prison."

"You don't know that."

"No," I admitted. "But I have to believe it. We both do."

Brodie reached across the table and took my hand. "I know I've been a terrible brother. I know I've taken advantage of you, disappointed you, let you down more times than I can count. But I need you to know—whatever happens, I'm grateful. For everything you've done. For never completely giving up on me."

The tears came before I could stop them. "You're my brother. I love you. Even when you make it really hard."

He laughed, a broken sound. "I'm going to do better, Bella. If I get through this, I swear I'm going to get my life together. No more drugs, no more bad decisions. I'll get a job, go to meetings, be the brother you deserve."

I'd heard it before. But looking at his face, at the genuine fear and determination in his eyes, I wanted so badly to believe him.

"Okay," I whispered.

We talked for another hour, carefully avoiding the topic of the trial. Instead, we reminisced about our childhood, our parents, the good times before everything fell apart. By the time we parted ways, I felt wrung out and emotionally exhausted.

On the bus ride back to my apartment, I checked my phone. Three missed calls from The Seven and two texts from Lena.

Where are you? Alexander is losing it.

Seriously, call back. Something happened.

My heart sank. I called Lena immediately.

"Thank God," she answered. "Where have you been?"

"I told Mr. Pearson I had a family emergency. What's wrong?"

"The health inspector showed up unannounced. Found some violations—nothing major, but enough to require immediate correction. Alexander is having a meltdown because we might have to close for a day to fix everything, and that would mean canceling reservations, including the critic's final visit."

"Oh no."

"Can you come in? I know you're dealing with personal stuff, but Robert thinks you might be able to help calm Alexander down. He's not listening to anyone."

I should have said no. I should have told Lena that Pearson had threatened me just yesterday, that he'd made it clear he saw me as a liability. But the restaurant was in trouble, and despite everything, I couldn't just abandon it.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes."

When I arrived at The Seven, it was chaos. The health inspector was still there, clipboard in hand, pointing out violations while Marco argued with her and Robert tried to mediate. Staff members stood around looking anxious.

And in the middle of it all was Pearson, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists.

I found Lena in the kitchen. "Where do we stand?"

"Three violations. Two are easy fixes—cleaning and organization. The third is the walk-in cooler. The temperature's fluctuating, which is a food safety issue. We need a repair, probably a full replacement, and the inspector won't clear us until it's done."

"How long will that take?"

"At least two days. Maybe more if we can't get the part."

Two days would mean canceling tomorrow's reservations, including the critic. All the progress we'd made would be for nothing.

"What if we could expedite it?" I said. "Pay extra for rush service, have someone work through the night?"

"It's still going to be tight. And expensive."

"Let me talk to the inspector."

I approached the health inspector, a stern woman in her fifties who looked like she'd seen every trick in the book and wasn't impressed by any of them.

"Excuse me, I'm Isabella Long, one of the owners."

She looked up from her clipboard. "Ms. Long. Your kitchen has some issues that need immediate attention."

"I understand. And we're prepared to address all of them right away. I just want to make sure we're clear on what needs to happen and what the timeline looks like."

I walked through each violation with her, taking notes, asking questions, making sure I understood exactly what was required. By the end of the conversation, I had a clear action plan.

Pearson appeared at my elbow. "What's the verdict?"

"We can fix the first two violations today. The cooler is going to be trickier, but I have an idea." I turned back to the inspector. "If we can show proof that a repair technician will be here first thing tomorrow morning, and if we can arrange alternative cold storage for tonight, would that be acceptable?"

The inspector considered this. "As long as all perishables are properly stored and I can verify the repair is scheduled with a reputable company, yes. But I'll need to re-inspect before you can reopen."

"Understood. Thank you."

After she left, I immediately started making calls. It took six tries, but I finally found a refrigeration company willing to send someone out first thing in the morning for a premium rate. Then I arranged for a refrigerated truck to be delivered for overnight storage.

By the time everything was settled, it was past 8 pm. The staff had long since left, and the restaurant was quiet. I found Pearson in the dining room, sitting alone at a table, staring out at the dark water.

"It's handled," I said. "The truck will be here in an hour. Technician comes at 7 am tomorrow. If the repair goes smoothly, we can be ready for dinner service."

He didn't look at me. "How much?"

"For everything? About eight thousand."

He winced. "That's more than the marketing budget."

"It's necessary. We can't operate without a functioning cooler."

"I know." He finally looked at me, and I was startled by the exhaustion in his face. "Thank you. For coming in. You didn't have to."

"Yes, I did. This restaurant is half mine, remember?"

"Is it though? After what I said yesterday, I wouldn't blame you if you'd decided to walk away."

I pulled out a chair and sat down, too tired to stand any longer. "I thought about it. Believe me, I thought about it. But I made a commitment, and I don't break my commitments."

"Even to people who don't deserve them?"

"Especially to them."

We sat in silence for a moment. The water outside was dark and still, the city lights reflecting on its surface.

"How was your meeting?" Pearson asked quietly.

I was so surprised that I answered honestly. "Scary. The lawyer thinks my brother has a decent chance, but it's not guaranteed. The trial is in four days."

"And you'll be there?"

"Of course."

"Even though it might impact the restaurant?"

"He's my brother, Mr. Pearson. Family comes first."

Pearson nodded slowly. "My father used to say that. Family always comes first. I never really understood what he meant until after he died." He paused. "I have no siblings. No wife, no kids. This restaurant is my family now. It's all I have left of him."

The confession hung in the air between us. For the first time, I saw past the hostility and the accusations to the grief underneath. Alexander Pearson wasn't just protecting his father's legacy—he was clinging to it because it was all he had left.

"I'm sorry," I said. "For your loss. I know what it's like to lose your parents."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-two. Car accident. One day they were there, the next day they weren't." I swallowed hard. "Brodie was only eighteen. Still in high school. I had to drop out of college to take care of him, make sure he finished school, try to fill a gap that could never really be filled."

"Is that why you're so loyal to him? Despite everything?"

"He's all I have left. And I promised my parents I'd take care of him." I met Pearson's eyes. "So yes, I'll help him, even when he doesn't deserve it. Even when it's hard. Because that's what family does."

Pearson was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "I was wrong. About threatening you yesterday. About suggesting I'd contest your ownership. That was..." He struggled for words. "That was beneath me."

"Yes, it was."

"I'm sorry."

The apology was simple, direct, and seemed to cost him. I didn't know what to do with it.

"Okay," I said finally.

"Just okay?"

"What do you want me to say? That it's fine? It's not fine. You hurt me. You keep hurting me, over and over, and I'm tired of it."

"I know."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you enjoy it. Like you get some kind of satisfaction from making me feel small."

"I don't." He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "I don't enjoy it, Isabella. I hate it, actually. I hate who I become around you."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because I'm scared," he said simply. "I'm scared that my father made a terrible mistake. I'm scared that I'm failing him by letting a stranger have control over his most precious creation. I'm scared that if I trust you, you'll destroy everything he built. And I'm scared that if I don't trust you, I'll lose it anyway."

The honesty in his words took my breath away. We stared at each other across the table, and something shifted between us. Not forgiveness, not quite. But understanding, maybe. Recognition.

"I'm not trying to destroy anything," I said quietly. "I'm just trying to survive. To help my brother, to make something of this bizarre opportunity I've been given, to prove that I'm not what you think I am."

"I know. I'm starting to see that."

"Are you?" I challenged. "Or is this just another momentary truce before the next fight?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'd like it to be more than that. I'd like to try."

Before I could respond, headlights swept across the parking lot. The refrigerated truck had arrived.

We both stood, the moment broken. But as we walked out together to direct the delivery, I felt something ease in my chest. It wasn't much. But it was something.

Maybe Alexander Pearson was capable of change after all.

Or maybe I was just setting myself up for more disappointment.

Time would tell.