Chapter 87 Time To End It

Chapter 87 Time To End It
Marcus’s POV

The drive to the hospital felt longer than it ever had.
Damian drove, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Peter sat in the passenger seat, jaw locked so tight I thought his teeth might crack. I was in the back, leg stretched awkwardly across the seat, brace digging into my skin, every bump in the road sending a dull ache through my knee.
None of us spoke. There was nothing left to say—not yet.

We’d dropped Anna and Courtney off at her house first. I’d walked her to the door on my crutches despite her protests, needing to see her safe inside, needing that moment of quiet where she’d pressed her forehead to mine and whispered, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
I clung to that now. Because what we were about to do felt like tearing open a wound that had never been allowed to heal.
The hospital loomed ahead, all glass and light and sterile order. It felt wrong that the world could look so calm when everything inside me was splintering.

Our dad’s room was dimmer than the others, curtains half-drawn against the late evening light. Machines hummed softly, steady and reassuring. For a brief, cruel second, he looked peaceful lying there—hands folded over the blanket, eyes closed, face relaxed in a way I’d rarely seen growing up.
Then his eyes opened. He took one look at us and sat up straighter.
“What happened?” my father asked immediately.
He didn’t ask how my knee was. He didn’t make a joke or issue an order. His voice held something sharper—instinct. He knew.
Peter shut the door quietly behind us. Damian hovered near it, arms crossed like a guard. I swallowed hard and moved closer to the bed, the weight of what I was about to say pressing down on my chest.
“Dad,” I said.
My voice sounded wrong. Thin. Frayed.

Dad studied my face, then Damian’s, then Peter’s. Whatever he saw there wiped the calm from his expression completely.
“Talk,” he said.
So we did.
Damian went first, laying out the facts in that steady, no-nonsense way he always had—Liam, the blackmail, Peter Ramsey using fear and leverage like weapons. Peter filled in the details about the attempted distraction, about Ramsey’s obsession, about the pattern we’d all been circling for years without fully seeing.
And then it was my turn. I told him about Lake Fenway. About Liam’s confession. About the words that had detonated in that police station and changed everything.
“I didn’t know,” I said, my throat tightening. “I thought she drowned. I thought—” My voice cracked. I forced myself to keep going. “I thought I failed her.”
My father didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away.
When I finally said the words—He shoved her. Peter Ramsey shoved Mom into the lake—the room went deathly still.
The machines kept humming. My father’s hands clenched slowly into fists.
For a moment, I thought he might explode. Yell. Break something. He was a man built on control, on precision—and I had just handed him chaos.

Instead, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were wet. I had never seen my father cry. Not at the funeral. Not in the years after. Not even when the doctors told him his heart had nearly failed. But now, tears slipped silently down his face.
“Eleanor,” he whispered.
The sound of my mother’s name in his voice—raw, broken—nearly brought me to my knees.
Peter looked away. Damian bowed his head.
“I should have known,” my father said hoarsely. “I knew something was wrong. But instead, I held on to the fact that they pulled Anna out of the lake as well.”
My heart lurched. “We all thought that was the case, dad.”
“I suspected,” he corrected. “For years. Ramsey was too… invested. Too quick to shut things down. Too eager to help.” His jaw tightened. “But I didn’t have proof. And every time I pushed, doors closed.”
“You let it go?” I asked quietly.

Pain flashed across his face. “I chose to protect my sons,” he said. “And I told myself that was enough. I thought blaming Donovan's daughter was enough.”
Anger flared in my chest—but it burned differently now. Not wild. Focused.
“Mom deserved justice,” I said.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “She did.”
He looked at each of us in turn. “And so do you. Anna too.”
My father pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs carefully toward the edge of the bed. A monitor beeped in protest.
“Dad,” Damian said quickly. “You’re not supposed to—”
“I’m not staying in this bed,” he snapped. “Not tonight.”

A nurse appeared almost instantly, but one look at his face and she hesitated. He promised rest later. She left reluctantly.
My father leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes burning with something I hadn’t seen in a long time.
Resolve.
“Peter Ramsey has built his life on fear,” he said. “On the belief that money and influence make him untouchable.”
He looked at me then. “He was wrong.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“I tried to play his game. I agreed to familial partnerships,” my father continued. “I tried to outmaneuver him quietly. Carefully.” His voice hardened. “That ends now.”
Peter let out a slow breath. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” my father replied, “that I will burn every bridge he’s standing on.”
The words sent a shiver through me—not fear, but relief.
“Dad,” I said carefully, “this can’t just be about revenge.”
His gaze softened when it returned to me. “It isn’t. It’s about truth. Accountability. And making sure he never hurts anyone again.”
I nodded. “The police are reopening the case.”
“Good,” he said. “They’ll have my full cooperation. And my full resources.”
Damian’s brows lifted slightly. “You’re going public.”
“Yes.”

That surprised all of us.
“He’s survived because people were afraid to speak,” my father said. “I won’t be one of them anymore.”
I felt something settle inside me then. Something I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting for my whole life.
“Mom would’ve wanted that,” I said quietly.
My father’s lips trembled. “She would’ve wanted me to be braver.”
Silence fell, thick but no longer suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, turning to me fully. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect her. And I’m sorry I let you and Anna carry that guilt.”
I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. “I carried it because I loved her.”
He reached out, gripping my forearm tightly. “And that’s why Ramsey will never win.”
Peter cleared his throat. “What do you need from us?”
My father straightened. “I need you to be careful. All of you. This man doesn’t go down quietly.”
“We know,” Damian said grimly.
“I also need you,” dad added, eyes on me now, “to focus on healing. Your knee. Your heart.” He paused. “And your future.”
I gave a small, tired smile. “I will.”
He squeezed my arm once more before letting go. “I promise you this, Marcus.”
I met his gaze.
“Peter Ramsey’s reign of terror ends with me.”

For the first time since Liam had spoken those words in the police station, the weight on my chest eased.
We stayed a little longer, talking logistics, next steps, contingencies. My father was already ten moves ahead, the strategist resurfacing—but this time, there was no coldness in it. No distance.
When we finally left the room, exhaustion hit me hard. Damian steadied me as we walked down the hall. Peter was quiet, lost in his own thoughts.
As the elevator doors closed, I let myself lean back against the wall, eyes shutting briefly. My mother’s truth was no longer buried.
And the man who had stolen it was finally running out of places to hide.