Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
I tell them every incriminating detail about my involvement—the conversation between my father and me, my demands to imprison Denver, my father’s fears of the media exposure, of being found and killed by his enemies, and my directive to have it dealt with the old-fashioned oligarch way. Quietly and lethally.
“I remained in the room when my father made the call to have him eliminated. I wouldn’t leave until I heard the words that hired the hitman and sealed my brother’s fate. Then, like a coward, I fled. I returned to university the next day, knowing I would never see my brother again, knowing he would be killed for his crimes because I forced my father’s hand. For thirty years, I thought he was dead. I carried that blame.”
“No one in this room blames you for wanting him dead.” Frankie’s voice is steady, but there’s something in her tone, an undercurrent of secrets too grim for daylight.
“Do you blame me for not telling you about him?”
“Jury is still out on that. Did you suspect what he was doing growing up?”
“No. Never. Denver is charming, intelligent, never violent, never killed animals or anything like that. By age eighteen, he was a genius engineer with a promising future. My parents adored him. Favored him.”
“A textbook psychopath.” Her eyes thin. “Your father loved him so much that he canceled that hit on his life?”
“Yes. I made that gutting discovery three months ago while searching for you.”
I summarize the past nine months, my efforts to find her, the secrets I unearthed in my childhood home, the blueprints, the flight logs, and the man who helped Denver for twenty years. Alvis Duncan.
For the next hour, I lay out my assumptions about what happened—my father forcing Denver into isolation in an off-grid cabin somewhere, the flight logs that tracked his comings and goings, and the plane crash that killed my parents.
“I think Denver tampered with their plane.” I take a calming breath. “I don’t have proof, but the motivation is there. He didn’t want their supervision.”
“Your parents died twenty-five years ago.” Leo braces his elbows on his knees, studying me. “I arrived at that cabin with my mother twenty-seven years ago.”
“He must’ve sneaked you onto the plane. All of you. Alvis Duncan said he hauled—”
“Crates.” Her head dips forward, chin resting on her chest, as if the strength to keep it lifted has ebbed away. “Coffin-sized crates. That’s how he transported me.”
My stomach sinks, the blood draining from my face. “Frankie…”
“There is so much I need to tell you.” She rubs at the shadows circling her eyes. “Difficult things.”
“It can wait.” It pains me to say it. My need for answers beats relentlessly against my ribcage. “You were in a plane crash today. You have a concussion, and you’re about to fall over.”
Ignoring me, she directs her eyes at Melanie. “Is it here?”
“Yes.” Melanie straightens, her tone professional. “It is sensitive evidence. Handing it over goes against counsel wishes.”
“I trust him with this. His involvement and relationship with us outweigh everything else.”
“Very well.” Melanie rises from the chair and steps into the hall.
She returns just as quickly with a book in her hands, its cover worn and edges frayed.
Frankie accepts it, her fingers tracing the rough, cracked texture of the spine.
“We have already removed the DNA samples from the pages.” Melanie returns to her seat. “When you’re finished, we need it back immediately.”
“Okay.” Frankie bites her lip, her gaze intertwining with mine. “Everything that happened over the past nine months is here. I logged it all in this diary.”
A diary? That must be the journal that Melanie mentioned earlier.
Do I want to read about Frankie’s time in that cabin with Denver?
Yeah, I fucking do. It’ll make me want to burn down the world. I’ll devour every goddamn detail with a lit match in my hand.
“I journaled my thoughts, feelings, assumptions, secrets, every ugly, terrible event that occurred, as well as the history of those who came before me.” Frankie caresses the book’s cover, which bears the marks of a survivor, from the staining of snowmelt to the patches worn from constant use. “I trust you with this information. But Monty, there are things you need to hear from us before you read it.”
As the air in the room tightens, the door swings open, and a nurse chooses that moment to breeze in. Oblivious to the tension, she focuses solely on the machines that beep and blink beside each bed.
The timing couldn’t be more intrusive. We glare at her as she moves from one bed to the next, doing routine checks.
Leo and Kody exchange glances, a silent consensus building, rife with impatience. Yet none of us voices our frustration, recognizing the necessity of her tasks.
She finally completes her rounds and makes her exit, the door clicking shut behind her.