“We know he was married and that his wife and daughter died in the car accident that night,” Hunt says. After searching his memory, Sawyer remembered exactly what Murtagh had said to him and Xavier that day in the prison. “But we want to know if he had any sons or any other children?”
I hold my breath as I wait for her reply.
“Why do you want to know this, Sawyer?”
“It’s complicated, Francesca, but I promise we are trying to do good here. If you are worried, don’t be.”
Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and her brow creases. Then she stands, lifting the lid off one of the boxes. “These are Vincent’s things,” she confirms. “No one ever showed up to collect them. I thought Zayn or Roman might, but they were grieving.” She roots through the box as my heart is ready to explode from my chest.
We all trade looks, knowing now that Hunt was right. Excitement is ripe in the air, and I can almost taste it—how close we are.
“I kept them in case they showed up later, but they never did.” Francesca removes a framed photo from the box, clutching it to her chest. “Vincent kept this photo on his desk. He was a family man through and through. Devoted to Olive and his kids.” Tears spring in her eyes. “I know what Vincent did, but that is not the man I knew and worked beside for years. He was a loving husband and father. A great friend and a loyal employee. It has troubled me for years. I don’t understand why he defrauded the company, but there must have been a reason.”
“He was being blackmailed,” Hunt says. “We don’t know with what, but he was forced into it. Murtagh told us the guilt got to Becker and he was planning on handing himself into the authorities when he died.” He leaves out the murder part because the last thing we need is some do-gooder techie snooping around. I don’t want Francesca’s death on my conscience.
“That had been one of my suspicions. Thank you for telling me.” She hands the framed picture to Hunt, and I grip the edge of the table ready to come out of my skin. “I don’t know what you and your friends are doing, but if there is any way to exonerate him, please do it, Sawyer.”
Hunt doesn’t reply because we can’t make promises we don’t know we can keep. My best friend walks toward Rick and me with evident emotion swimming in his eyes. Sawyer Hunt rarely shows emotion, so I already know what we’re going to see before he hands us the photo. “It’s them,” he softly says as Rick takes the picture and holds it out in front of us.
It’s a loving family photo—the type you expect most executives to display on their desks—of a smiling husband and wife and three well-dressed kids. The pretty little girl looks just like her mom, but it’s the two boys standing on either side of her who have drawn my attention. My breath seizes in my chest, and it’s like looking in the mirror.
“Zayn and Roman were adopted,” Francesca says, walking toward us. “They’re who you’re looking for, aren’t they? I spotted the resemblance the minute I saw you two.”
A sob rips from the very depths of my soul, and I bury my head in my trembling hands as Hunt says something to the woman. But I can’t hear a thing over the rampant beating of my heart, the blood thrumming in my ears, and the myriad of thoughts swimming through my head.
“We found them, Kai,” Rick croaks, grabbing me into a hug. His body is shaking as badly as mine. “We found them,” he repeats. “We’re bringing our brothers home.”
Chapter Sixteen
Zayn
“Roman, look at me,” I say through gritted teeth as the asshole cop yanks my arms behind my back and slaps handcuffs on me. “It will be fine. Don’t freak out. Call Everett. He’ll know what to do.”
“This is no trivial matter, son,” the older cop with the gray buzzcut says, fixing me with a grave expression. “Computer crimes are a serious offense in the state of New York.”
Roman’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he stares at me in shock.
“I’ll make it go away, and I’ll be home in time for dinner,” I tell my brother, trying to reassure him because he looks like he’s going to piss his pants.
Hamilton is making his play, but it’s only an initial tentative shot to warn me he’s not backing down. Hacking is a misdemeanor if you don’t steal anything, and in the case of this trumped-up charge, that’s all it is. It’d be a completely different story if they caught me for the millions I’ve divested from elite bank accounts. Then, it’d be a felony, and I’d be talking about serious time and a massive fine. But no one will report me for stealing from their ill-gotten gains, and even if they did, I leftzero trace. This is a first offense, and they won’t do anything to me.
So what if I hacked into the WLU IT system last summer to download a few summer school schedules? It’s hardly the crime of the century. I know I left no trace that time either, so Hamilton has clearly doctored evidence to point the finger at me.
Honestly, I’m disappointed. This is a feeble tactic, and it won’t deter me from sticking to my guns.
I’m not going to Rydeville, end of.
“Move,” the younger asshole cop says, shoving me between the shoulder blades.
“Zayn.” Roman’s voice trembles.
“Call Everett. Tell him to send a lawyer to get me out.” I should probably look into hiring someone myself if this is the approach Hamilton is planning to take.
Sounds of approaching footsteps tickle my ears as we round the corner and enter the hallway of our apartment. Our front door is wide-open because I didn’t get a chance to close it after the cops busted in here.
I slam to a halt as all the blood leaches from my face in instant shock.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
