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I watch as the conference room door closes behind him, and Michael clears his throat.
“Good work, boys. It took a few weeks, but we got it in the end. Ben, please thank your mother for me,” Beasley says to me with a glint in his eye.
“Sure. Wait, for what?” I ask, confused, as I lean over and grab the file of paperwork to give to Sandra.
“Oh, without her and her connections, I couldn’t have made this a done deal. Your mother is a smart woman. Evil, but smart.” Grinning, he follows Michael out the door, and my stomach feels like I swallowed lead.
Once Michael and Beasley leave the room, I sit for a moment, my head in my hands, deep-rooted pain throbbing in my chest as I think about all the kids, Rosie, and Emily. Then with a sigh, I sit back and look at the paperwork, cross-checking that George signed where he was meant to, and the air leaves my lungs when I see the final page. It is the payment details page, where he wanted the money sent to. But it isn’t his bank account details on the form, rather stating that five million dollars needs to be given to the Vision Impaired Center and the other five million dollars needs to be given to the Women’s Domestic Violence Center.
I’m utterly gobsmacked. He didn’t even take the money. He was offered ten million dollars, and he gave it away. I am in awe of this man whose beliefs are so strong that he turns down that amount of money. Still, I try to connect the dots, realizing that it was never about the money for George and Emily and always about the school.
I feel sick that my own firm benefits by a few million, when George just gave away ten. He gave it away because of Rosie and wanting to help other kids like her. Looking back at the paperwork, I am trying to work out the domestic violence connection, and then it slaps me in the face.
Rosie telling me about her father being a bad man.
Emily with bruises on her face from her “fall.”
George's extreme caution around me and always looking out for them both.
My eyes home in on the small bowl of Milk Duds Sandra left on the table, and I jump up, running back to my office where my brothers are waiting, hoping that I am very, very wrong.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE - BEN
“Where are the photos!” I pant as soon as I push through the door.
“Over there, but, Ben, you need to—” Eddie says, lifting a file from his lap that must have fallen from my desk earlier.
I scurry to the Polaroids, staring at them intently.
“What is it?” Harrison asks me as he comes closer.
“Em has a birthmark on her left hip…” I say, the mark now so vivid in my mind as my eyes run over each and every photo. Damn, why didn’t I think of this earlier?
“What? What are you talking about?” Harrison quizzes.
“Em has a birthmark the size of a Milk Dud on her left hip. None of these photos show it. None of them show it!” I shout, looking over them again, my heart lightening, knowing for sure this isn’t her. I don’t know who they are or why someone would do this, but I knew they were off. It isn’t her. The relief pouring through my body is instant. I knew it couldn’t be; I just couldn’t see the truth behind the photos.
“Here, let me look.” Harrison grabs them from me, looking over them more thoroughly.
“Ben, you need to see this,” Eddie says again, standing, and I look up at him, renewed hope fluttering in my chest.
“Have you seen this file on Emily?” Eddie asks again, his eyebrows raised.
“I haven’t looked at it. Michael got it weeks ago when we first met her. I was going to look through her history and see what I could find out about her to help with Beasley's case, but then I got to know her and thought it might be a bit creepy,” I say with a shrug.
“You need to see this,” Eddie pushes, his tone serious, and all us boys look at him.
Tennyson looks over his shoulder first.
“What the fuck!” He stands up ramrod straight and rips the file from Eddie’s grasp.
“What?” Harrison questions, his tone demanding. In his new position as governor, he needs complete transparency.
For the first time in his entire life, Ten is speechless. With the file open wide in his hands, he just looks at me. “I’m sorry, bro…” he says, handing me the file.
I grab it and pull it open to see pages and pages of reports, pictures, and victim statements. Pictures of Em’s body, bruised, bashed, distorted. I flick through them all, looking at the dates, six months ago, a year ago, going all the way back to years earlier, when as a pregnant woman, she was pushed down the stairs in a building not far from here.
My eyes scan quickly, looking at details, names, police departments, and one name consistently comes into my vision: Jeremy Lucas.
