Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

Aiden

"Who was murdered?" Dad asks the moment I set my phone back on the table, his eyes fixed intently on mine.
"Annabelle Wilson. My ex," I answer, forcing myself to swallow. I am not deeply pained by her death; she was served exactly what she brewed, but I still wish she had chosen a different path. I always knew her actions would lead to trouble eventually.
"The one who triggered your wife’s allergy?"
I’m not surprised Dad knows who she is. He promised to look into the matter himself the night Hermione was harmed.
"The very one. She was also behind the attempt to sabotage my reputation," I say, recalling how Hermione and I barely saved it with our narrative during the exclusive interview with Becca.
"You think Lachlan was colluding with her?"
"It’s just a suspicion for now. The culprit has been apprehended and is being interrogated. His confession will determine our next step."
Dad nods in understanding.
"Don't tell him about my suspicions. I want to catch him off guard," I add. I have a strong conviction that Lachlan is involved, especially after the threats he made the last time I ran into him and Dawn. I heard he ended things with her brutally, even assaulting her before firing her. I trail off purposefully, cautious about how much I reveal to Dad. If he did nothing regarding the incident with Dawn, he might still be sheltering Lachlan behind the scenes, despite appearing otherwise. I have to be extremely careful with everyone here if I want to keep my head on my shoulders.
"Understood," Dad says quietly, rising from his seat. "Congratulations once again. I wish you success and many more accomplishments on this journey."
"Thank you, sir. Please, take care of your health." I escort him to the elevator and wave a final goodbye as the doors close. Then, I return to my office.
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Lachlan

I pick up the call disturbing my smoky reverie, answering with a low growl. "Yes."
"Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Lachlan Mendes?" the caller inquires.
I glance at the unknown number on the screen before returning the phone to my ear. "To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Detective Jordan from the Phoenix Police Department. We’re inviting you to the station for questioning regarding a murder case we’re investigating."
I blink sharply, sitting up abruptly. "What murder case?" I hiss.
"The recent murder of Annabelle Wilson."
"Aiden’s stupid ex? The one who tried to harm Hermione?"
"Exactly," the detective confirms.
My eyes widen. Did I say that aloud? My cigar drops from my fingers onto the desk, staining the dark surface with ash and a fading ember.
"You were mentioned as an accomplice during the investigation, and we would like to hear your account. Or would you prefer we issue an official warrant for your arrest?"
"I have nothing to do with Annabelle Wilson’s death!" I grit out through clenched teeth.
"That is why we’re inviting you to the station—to prove your innocence. The sooner you arrive, the better."
"I’ll be there this evening."
"Wise choice, Mr. Mendes. We would prefer to avoid media attention should we be forced to make an arrest."
"I had nothing to do with her death," I state more firmly.
"Very well, Mr. Mendes. I’ll be expecting you." He ends the call.
I slam my phone onto the table, anger pulsing through me. My thoughts center on one person: Aiden.
Taking my mother out of the way wasn't enough for him; now he’s trying to remove me, too?
My jaw clenches hard, my hand balling into a fist against the desk. We shall see who has the last laugh. Filthy scumbag.
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I clock off work early to keep my appointment with the detective. After all, I have nothing to do in my office besides smoke and wallow in silence. Being officially sacked would be better than the silent treatment Dad has been giving me; I haven't been trusted with a single document since my duplicity was exposed.
Detective Jordan masks his surprise when he comes to fetch me. I’m certain he expected me to ignore the request so he could relish arresting me publicly, drawing the media's attention and embarrassing me.
Unless this is a setup by Aiden, I have no reason to fear an interrogation.
"Welcome," he says politely. "This way, please."
When we enter the room, I’m stunned to see a man handcuffed in a chair.
"Him," the man says, pointing at me and nodding.
I blink. "What is he doing here? Why is he handcuffed?" I ask Detective Jordan.
"I’m glad you aren't denying you know him. At least you’re more cooperative than the late Annabelle Wilson," the detective states.
I’m confused. "What is going on here? Why is he here?"
"Drop the act, Mr. Mendes. This is the man you sent to kill Annabelle Wilson."
My jaw drops. I gawk at the man in question. "I don’t even know your name."
"It’s Justin," the man says, curling his mouth in displeasure as if it isn't the first time he's had to remind me.
Shit. I shove my fingers through my hair. I should have known. Aiden set me up.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask Justin, my voice dangerously calm. "Who told you to frame me? Was it Aiden?"
Justin holds my gaze with a knowing smirk but says nothing. My rage boils over. I leap at him, grabbing his shirt, my fist poised to dismantle his lying jaw. "Answer me!"
"Whoa, whoa!" Detective Jordan steps forward, catching my fist mid-air and restraining me.
"Let go of me!" I struggle against the detective, wanting to punch Justin until he can't count the teeth he has left. Justin remains calm despite my fury. More officers rush in to assist.
"We will be forced to detain you, Mendes, if you keep acting out," Jordan warns.
I glare at him but heed the warning, though anger pulses sharply in my veins. I swear I’m going to kill Aiden.
"I do not know that man," I insist.
"We have evidence that suggests otherwise." Detective Jordan pulls an envelope from his pocket and tosses photos of me with Justin onto the table.
That reinforces my suspicion. "This is a setup," I scowl, forcing down a swallow.
"Is it?"
"Where did you get these? I have no business with this man!"
"You can't keep lying in the face of this evidence, Mr. Mendes. Why did you order Annabelle Wilson's death? Let me tell you why I doubt your innocence. You hate your brother—that’s common knowledge. Your hatred has only festered now that he’s been inaugurated as CEO, a position that was originally meant for you.
You colluded with Annabelle Wilson, who wanted revenge on Aiden for their past breakup. Two people with a common goal merged. When she failed to bring him down, she sought your man’s help to flee the country, knowing she’d be arrested for defaming Aiden’s character. She was already out on bail for the attempted homicide of Hermione Mendes due to a lack of concrete evidence, but she knew she couldn’t talk her way out of this new scandal.
Justin," the detective says, glancing at the man seated across from us, "killed her when she threatened to expose you both. Unbeknownst to him, an agent was outside recording their struggle. When he killed her, thinking the matter would be buried, our agent proved him wrong. He only succeeded in digging his own grave."
"How exactly do I factor in as the mastermind?" I demand. "What proof do you have that I was behind the scenes giving orders?"
"Your animosity toward your brother, for one. And the fact that you were present the night Hermione Mendes was poisoned. The waitress has identified Justin as the man who persuaded her to commit the attempted murder. Furthermore, the money found on her is far beyond the pay grade of either Annabelle or Justin—meaning you are the financial backbone of this scheme. Do the math, Lachlan. Who benefits most if your brother’s name is dragged through the mud? All evidence points to you."
"That’s bullshit!" I snap, sweeping at one of the photos so it flips over. "These pictures don't show what you think they do. He was trying to pitch a product to me." I point at another photo where it appears I am handing Justin an envelope or issuing secret orders. "He forced this into my hand, telling me to inspect the contents. He later apologized, claiming he’d mistaken me for another client."
As I say it, I straighten up, the realization hitting me. This was a setup. I barely remember the incoherent pitch he made when he barged into my booth at that restaurant. I had been waiting for someone else, and he had shown up looking like a jittery mess. It was a trap from the start.
However, the detective seems entirely confident in his assessment. To him, it is indisputable that I have been pulling the strings.
I force myself to remain calm and think. Even if they don’t believe me, I refuse to go down for a crime I didn’t commit. My time in a prison cell hasn't started ticking just yet.
"Can I make a call?" I request.