Chapter 267
Thomas
Arthur flinched like he'd been slapped.
"Lance, I—"
"Vincent." Lance didn't even look at his assistant, just made a small gesture. Vincent materialized from the corner where he'd been standing silent as a shadow. "Mr. Lawson is tired. Take him home."
"Of course, sir." Vincent's hand was gentle but firm on Arthur's arm. "Come on. Let the young ones handle their... business."
Arthur let himself be led out, suddenly looking every one of his eighty years. The door clicked shut behind them.
I cleared my throat. "Well. If we're all done with the theatrics—"
"Actually." Diana's voice stopped me cold. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stay just a few more minutes, Thomas."
I turned slowly. "Why?"
Her smile was sharp. Predatory. "Because my team just recovered some footage from thirty years ago. Deleted files we managed to restore." She paused, letting that sink in. "I think you'll find them... very interesting. They might even feature someone you know."
The way she said it—someone you know—sent ice down my spine.
My hand was already on the doorknob. Every survival instinct I'd honed over three decades screamed at me to walk out. To lawyer up. To disappear into the machinery of wealth and privilege that had protected me this long.
But that phrase kept echoing.
Someone you know.
What the hell had they found?
Footage from thirty years ago should have been destroyed. I'd paid to have it destroyed. Calloway had personally assured me every scrap of evidence from Saint's Bay had been wiped, burned, buried so deep it would never see daylight.
But Diana's smile said otherwise.
And if there was something on those tapes—something that could hurt someone I couldn't afford to lose—
I needed to know.
Besides. My people were already in position. The call I'd made from the bathroom twenty minutes ago had set wheels in motion that even Diana Reeves couldn't stop. All I had to do was stall a little longer, and this whole circus would come crashing down around their ears.
I could afford to play along. To see what cards she thought she was holding.
"Fine." I released the doorknob and sank back into my chair with exaggerated patience, like I was doing them all a tremendous favor. "But make it quick. I've wasted enough time on your fishing expedition."
Diana's smile widened, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I'd just made a terrible mistake.
Diana nodded to someone outside the two-way mirror. A young officer entered with a USB drive, plugging it into the monitor mounted on the wall.
The screen flickered. Snow. Static. Then—
Saint's Bay.
The camera angle was high, probably mounted on a utility pole. The road curved along the cliff face, guardrails gleaming dully in the late afternoon sun. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a car appeared. Small. Blue. Grace's car.
I watched it approach the curve. Watched it begin to turn. Watched the tires suddenly lose grip, the car fishtailing wildly. Watched it smash through the guardrail like it was made of paper.
Watched it disappear over the edge.
Serena made a small, wounded sound. Lance's face had gone white, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles looked like bone.
I put on my best grief-stricken expression. Let my voice crack a little.
"I've seen this footage a hundred times. A thousand times." I shook my head. "It never gets easier. Watching her die like that. Knowing she thought Evander was waiting for her, and instead—"
"Oh, but now comes the interesting part, Thomas," Diana interrupted, her voice carrying a note of dark satisfaction.
My stomach dropped.
"This next bit," she continued, voice calm as glass, "was recorded thirty minutes before the crash."
No.
The screen flickered again. Same location. Same curve. But this time, a different car—dark, expensive, no license plates—crept slowly along the road.
The rear window rolled down.
An arm emerged.
I watched—frozen, unable to breathe—as liquid poured from a container in that hand, splashing across the asphalt in a deliberate, careful pattern. Oil. Enough to make the road slick as ice.
The car completed its slow circuit and disappeared.
I felt Lance's eyes burning into me. Felt Serena's sharp intake of breath. But all I could see was that arm. That small, thin arm.
Felix.
My son had been thirteen years old.