Page 54
My grandfather was a good man.
A great man.
But he wasn't a monk living alone on top of a mountain.
He was wealthy.
Powerful.
Connected.
His circle included politicians. Heads of state. CEOs. Tycoons. Athletes. Investors. Men whose names appeared on buildings and others whose names could move markets with a single phone call.
Most were decent people.
Some weren't.
A few turned out to be shady as fuck.
Granddad couldn't have predicted that.
Nobody can know what another person will become ten or twenty years down the road.
But I know how this works.
A photograph.
A business dinner.
A donation to the same charity.
A flight manifest.
Two names appearing on the same board thirty years ago.
Put enough ominous music behind it and suddenly coincidence becomes conspiracy.
Association becomes complicity.
A dead man can't explain context.
Can't defend himself.
Can't tell some unscrupulous reporter to go fuck herself.
I can.
My jaw tightens.
Except everything we've uncovered about Layla says she isn't unscrupulous.
That's the problem.
It would be easier if she were.
If we'd found some history of sensationalism or half-assed reporting, I'd have legal bury her beneath so much paperwork she'd forget my grandfather's name.
Instead, her record is annoyingly clean.
