Chapter 266
Thomas
The air in the interrogation room tasted like victory.
I watched Arthur slump in his chair, one hand pressed against his chest like the weight of thirty years had finally crushed something inside him. Eleanor stood frozen by the wall, her face pale as milk. Even Lance—that cold bastard—looked shaken, his jaw working like he was trying to swallow broken glass.
And Serena. Pretty little Serena with her big eyes and her bleeding heart, staring at me like I'd just kicked a puppy.
Perfect.
I slipped Evander's phone back into my pocket, patting it gently. The evidence that proved I was just the messenger. The good brother who'd tried to help. The one who'd kept his mouth shut for three decades to protect this family's precious reputation.
"So." I straightened my jacket, letting the silence stretch. "Are we finished here? Or does Detective Reeves have any actual charges to file?"
Diana's expression didn't change, but I caught the slight tightening around her eyes. She knew she had nothing. A thirty-year-old text message from a dead man, asking me to pass along information. That wasn't murder. That was family business.
"Mr. Lawson," she said carefully. "There are still questions—"
"Questions aren't charges." I turned toward the door. "And I've been more than patient with this little interrogation. But I think it's time I checked on my son. Felix needs me."
I took three steps.
Three glorious steps toward freedom.
"But—"
Serena's voice cut through the room like a knife.
I stopped. Didn't turn around. Just waited.
"But that's the thing, isn't it?" Her words came faster now, gaining strength. "That secret information—about the time, about Saint's Bay—only you knew about it."
My shoulders tensed.
"And Grace just happened to crash on that exact stretch of road." She paused. "That's not a coincidence."
I felt Lance move before I saw him. When I turned, he was standing, his hands flat on the table, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
"Which means," he said, voice cold as winter, "even if you didn't do it yourself—someone else knew. Someone you told."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
"Someone who had time to prepare that road," Lance continued, each word precise as a scalpel. "To make sure Grace's car would go over that cliff."
My heart hammered against my ribs. No. No no no.
"This is ridiculous—" I started.
"Is it?" Serena cut in. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the only connection between that text message and what happened to Grace. Either you killed her yourself, or—"
"Or you had help," Lance finished. "Someone you trusted. Someone who knew exactly what you were planning."
The room tilted.
All these years. All the careful planning, the buried evidence, the stories I'd crafted and polished until they gleamed like truth. And now these two—this girl and my self-righteous nephew—were pulling at the one thread that could unravel everything.
I forced a laugh. Harsh. Bitter.
"This is absurd." I turned to Diana, injecting every ounce of righteous anger I could muster into my voice. "Detective Reeves. These aren't police officers. They're family members with an axe to grind. I'll answer your questions—but I won't stand here and be accused by—"
"By the people you tried to destroy?" Lance's voice was quiet. Deadly. "The people whose lives you've been manipulating for thirty years?"
"I don't have to listen to this." I looked Diana dead in the eye. "Do you have grounds to hold me? Am I under arrest? Because if not, I'm leaving. Now."
Diana hesitated. I saw her gaze flick to Lance, some silent communication passing between them.
Lance's jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Let him go," he said quietly. "You do your job your way, Detective. I'll do mine."
The threat hung in the air like smoke.
"When he walks out of here," Lance continued, never breaking eye contact with me, "he's mine. And he will pay for what he's done."
"Lance." Arthur's voice cracked like old wood. He'd been so quiet I'd almost forgotten he was there. "Please. Let the past stay buried. I can't—I can't watch this family tear itself apart again."
Lance turned on him, and for the first time in my life, I saw genuine fury directed at Arthur Lawson.
"You can leave, Grandfather." The words were polite. The tone was ice. "I don't want to say something I'll regret. Because let's be clear—you're part of the reason my parents are dead."