Chapter 265

Chapter 265
Lance
 
The fist I'd been holding inches from Thomas's face dropped like dead weight.
 
My arm felt numb. My whole body felt numb.
 
"What the hell did you just say?"
 
Thomas watched my hand fall, and something shifted in his expression—from cornered animal to something almost serene. Almost victorious.
 
"Thirty years," he said slowly, voice carrying across the silent room. "Thirty years I've kept quiet. Protected this family. Kept the full story buried to avoid dragging us all through more pain." His eyes swept over Arthur, over Eleanor, finally landing back on me. "But since we're apparently doing this—since you're all so eager to paint me as the villain—maybe it's time everyone knew the truth."
 
He reached into his jacket pocket.
 
Vincent's hand went to his holster. Diana tensed.
 
But Thomas only pulled out his phone. An old model, the kind with actual buttons. The kind nobody used anymore except to keep ancient messages that newer devices couldn't transfer.
 
"I have proof," he said, holding it up. "A text message. From your father. Right here."
 
The air left the room.
 
I stared at that phone like it was a live grenade.
 
"You're lying." The words came out hoarse. "Dad never—"
 
"Didn't he?" Thomas's thumb moved across the screen, pulling up something. "Why don't we let Detective Reeves read it? For the record. So there's no question about my... innocence."
 
He held the phone toward Diana.
 
She hesitated, eyes flicking to me. I couldn't read her expression—professional mask firmly in place—but her fingers were careful when she took the device. She examined it for a long moment, checking the metadata, the timestamp, the sender information.
 
"The number matches," she said finally. "Same number Mr. Lawson Senior provided earlier. Registered to Evander Lawson." She paused. "Date stamp shows it was sent the night before Grace Blair's death."
 
My heart stopped.
 
"Read it," Thomas said. "Out loud. So everyone understands exactly what happened."
 
Diana's jaw tightened. But she cleared her throat and began.
 
"'Thomas—I need to call Grace. I need to explain. I need to talk to her, to tell her I'm sorry, to tell her I want to leave this godforsaken family and this city with her. But she won't answer my calls. Won't even look at me. And now I'm hearing she's planning to leave New York altogether.'"
 
The words hit like physical blows.
 
That was my father's voice. Even filtered through Diana's clinical reading, I could hear him—desperate, breaking apart.
 
"'So I'm asking you, brother. I know you don't approve. I know you think she's wrong for me, just like Dad does. But I'm begging you—help me. Tomorrow morning. Ten forty-eight. I'll be at Saint's Bay. If she comes... if she just shows up... I'll leave everything behind. All of it. This company, this family, this whole tangled mess we call a life. I'll go with her. Anywhere. Just her and me.'"
 
Diana's voice cracked slightly on the last line.
 
"'Please, Thomas. You're my brother. If you've ever cared about me at all—help me have this one chance.'"
 
Silence.
 
The kind that crushes you from the inside out.
 
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
 
Fuck.
 
My father's message had come true. They had left their tangled lives behind.
 
But not the way he'd meant.
 
Not the way anyone should.
 
Serena made a small, wounded sound beside me. Her hand found mine, squeezed hard enough to hurt.
 
Arthur was staring at Thomas like he was seeing a ghost.
 
"Thomas." His voice shook. "I... I misunderstood. I thought you—"
 
Thomas snatched the phone back before Arthur could finish, his movements sharp and deliberate. The mask of the wounded, misunderstood brother slipped back into place, but underneath it I could see the cold calculation.
 
The satisfaction.
 
"Well," he said, voice dripping with bitter vindication. "You all wanted so badly for me to be the villain. Wanted to believe I killed her. That I lured her to her death." He looked at each of us in turn. "Sorry to disappoint. But as you can see—I was just doing what my brother asked. Passing along a message. Trying to give him one last chance at happiness."
 
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, patted it like it was a talisman.
 
"So." His smile was thin, sharp. "Are you finally willing to let me leave? Or do you need to accuse me of a few more crimes I didn't commit?"
 
Arthur's face had gone gray. "Thomas, I—"
 
"Save it." Thomas straightened his jacket, every inch the wronged man. "I think we're done here. Unless Detective Reeves has an actual charge to file?"