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“Kind of hard to lie about an autopsy that was performed twice, don’t you think?” I ask him, trying to keep my anger in check and not freak out and give him anything. “They did a private one, and we were lucky that the coroner never flushed out the blood that was collected at the morgue when he was brought in. Then the court found out about the discrepancy and requested another one.”
“Right,” he says, ignoring my point. “Do you think she did it as a vendetta against the Cartwrights?”
“Is this a piece about how our lives are since then or is this a piece about how wrong the Cartwrights were?” I ask him the question, waiting to see what he says. His body gets tight for a minute, and then he relaxes into it.
“We are just trying to get a different angle of the story,” he explains, and my skin prickles at the back of my neck. A bad vibe is just rolling off him, and something definitely feels off about him.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Trowel.” I pick up his card. “How about you email me the questions you want to ask me, and I’ll have my attorney look at them, and then I’ll get back to you.” Disappointment registers all over his face as I put the card down and start to get up.
“I would think that with everything Ms. Thatcher did to you, you would be willing to give your side of the story.”
“Ms. Thatcher wasn’t the one driving the truck,” I remind him, my teeth clenched together tight. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it before walking out of the office and down the hallway to the front door. I stare out the window at him getting into his rental car, and only when he’s out of the parking lot do I take the phone out of my pocket and scroll down to the number I’m looking for.
He answers after half a ring. “Charlie,” he says and I can see the smile fill his face.
“Hey, Pops,” I reply, and he must sense that my voice is tight. My grandfather is Casey Barnes, who owns CBS Corporation, which is one of the top security companies in the world, with contracts with the military that are top secret.
“What’s up, big man?” he asks, and I turn and walk back to my desk.
“Someone came in here,” I state, and I know right away the smile on his face is gone. “A reporter, Darren Trowel,” I read his name off the card.
“What did he want?” he asks, and I sit back in my chair.
“He’s doing a follow-up about the accident.”
“What?” he hisses out. “Did he ask you questions?”
“Oh yeah, but the questions were more an accusation on Autumn and if she had a vendetta.” My voice gets tight. “It was fucking strange, and I did not get a good feeling about this article.”
“Send me his contact information, and I’ll run a check on him.” He gives me a deep sigh. “But from what you said, I don’t like it.”
“That would make two of us.”
“Has he spoken to anyone else?” he asks, and my stomach burns at the memory.
“Yeah, he went to talk to Autumn,” I say, “but Brady put him out on his ass, and the next time, she told him to leave.”
“Persistent,” he notes. “Let me see what I can find.”
“Sounds good.” I take a picture of the business card and send it to him via text.
“You sound different,” he immediately says, and I shake my head, chuckling.
“I sound the same.” I take a deep breath in.
“No, you sound… I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Well, I have work to do.” I don’t want to get into it right now. “Let me know what you find.”
“You got it. When are you going to come and visit Grandma and Grandpa?” He mentions my great-grandparents.
“I’ll come soon. Got to go. I love you,” I say before I hang up the phone on him.
I’m putting my phone in my pocket when it pings with a text, and I can’t help but laugh.
Pops:You know that I can find out things, right?
I answer him right away.
