I keep trying. Fact: Charlotte was driving. Fact: Sienna was not. Implication: every action we took was based on wrong information. And beyond that I just stop. The implication won't process. The consequences are too monumental for me to consider them.
I look at William.
He's sitting across the low table with his elbows on his knees and his head down, fingers locked behind his neck. He hasn't touched the whisky. Neither have I.
I've seen William in a lot of states. Angry, I've seen. Strategic-cold, I've seen.
I have never seen him like this.
The last time anything came close was when we were teenagers. He was 16, had just moved to the house next door, with his kid sister, his broken father, with scars still fresh on his back and his pride shattered.
We weren't friends yet. We became friends slowly, the way people do when they're both trying to survive the same environment without letting it show. And then one night withcheap beer, on a fire escape, we made our pact. We would get out of that shitty neighbourhood. We would be someone important and powerful.
I buried myself in learning how to be a top lawyer. William started boxing, from there bouncing. Then followed where the money moved and built an empire alongside Carter.
Both of us did it the best we could with what life threw at us. Two men who made something from nothing.
I know how he thinks. I know what drives him. I know what triggers him. I thought I knew everything that mattered about him.
I have never seen him look defeated.
He looks defeated right now. Head down. Fingers locked. The weight of it on the back of his neck. And I realize that I don't know what to do with this version of William.
Carter is to my left, glass in his hand clutched so hard I think it might shatter. He is also processing what was just revealed.
One by one the consequences stack.
Charlotte was driving.
Not Sienna.
And I built a legal argument around Sienna's recklessness, documented her instability, and I took that documentation to a judge.
I had a clean narrative. Conrad Cross's daughter, her mother's patterns showing up in her, the near miss with William's sister as evidence of danger. To herself and to others.
I had it structured and I presented it as true because it had been given to me as true. Because William believed it. Because Charlotte stood at the scene of an accident she caused, and said it was Sienna.
I was good at it. I was precise and thorough and I did the work correctly.
I pressured a judge to give a harsher ruling to someone who had done nothing wrong. Using the skills I spent my entire career building.
That's all it took. One person's lie. And we built the rest.
Finally William lifts his head.
Looks me in the eyes and says, “We fucked up.”
And there is nothing there. No emotion. Not in his voice. Not in his eyes. Like he is numb. Like he is resigned.
It makes me furious.
"No." I lean forward. The word comes out too loud and I don't care. "Your sister fucked up! She lied. We made decisions based on your sister's lies."
He goes still. Different still. Something coiling behind it.
"Watch it." Two words. Cold.
"I'm serious, William. She lied to you, while Sienna stood right there —"
