I look at him, not sure if he means the evidence or something else.
He nods to the folder. “The stuff about your father.”
I reach for it, but before my fingers touch the leather, James catches my wrist, gentle but immovable.
“Not yet,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “Let’s have a drink first. For courage.”
He lets go, but the imprint of his hand lingers, a heat that crawls up my arm and settles in my chest.
Brent pours a fresh flute of champagne and hands it to me. “To truth, whatever that is,” he says.
James raises his glass. “To honesty, even when it’s ugly.”
Oh shit, why are they speaking in riddles already? Nonetheless, I take a drink. The champagne is sweeter this time, or maybe my tongue is numb.
Brent leans in, his thigh pressed against mine, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know you can still walk away.”
I shrug helplessly. “You both keep saying that. I’m starting to think you want me to.”
James smirks, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “Sweetheart, if we didn’t want you here, you’d know.”
I look at them: Brent, all contained power and careful distance; James, loose and hungry, his eyes never leaving my face.
The tension is a live animal, pacing just under the surface.
I cross my legs again, my skirt riding up an inch, and both men watch the movement like cats eyeing a canary.
I take another drink, draining the glass. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s see what you have here.”
James opens the folder and flips through the pages. He extracts a single sheet and places it in front of me, careful not to touch my hand this time. It’s a witness statement, the signature at the bottom blurred out. I lean in, tracing the lines with my finger, scanning for the clue that will redeem my father or destroy him completely.
The men watch me read. Brent’s hand rests on my knee, casual, but it’s a promise and a warning at once. James sits back, arms folded, his gaze more tender than I expect.
I look up. “Why are you giving me this?”
James shrugs. “Because you earned it.”
Brent says, “Because you’re brave enough to want the truth.”
I read another page, and another. My throat goes tight; my eyes sting. I blink hard, refusing to let tears fall.
“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice, and I mean it.
James closes the folder, then takes my empty glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. “We’re not monsters, Marnie. Just men.”
Brent’s grip tightens on my knee, then lets go.
I sit back, heart pounding, the evidence heavy in my lap.
For a minute, we’re just three people on a sofa, no office, no city, no past.
Then Brent says, “Are you ready?”
My body says yes before my mouth can catch up.
I glance at James, who gives me a slow, knowing nod.
“I’m ready,” I whisper.
