Page 69 of Reveal

I walk toward the desk, take a seat in my chair, and study the papers he’s laid out on it. I shuffle through them, each one confusing me more than the last.

“I don’t understand.” I pick up the two arrest warrants—Vaughn’s name is front and center on the first, Samantha’s on the second one—almost as if I don’t believe what I’m seeing.

“James Dillinger is a paraplegic.” Stuart’s eyes meet mine.

“And?”

“And those papers”—he points to the arrest warrant naming one Samantha Dillinger for attempted murder—“state that she’s the one who pulled the trigger.”

“The fucker deserved it.” It’s my automatic response, my moral compassion for a man who preyed on young girls less than nil.

“Not going to argue with you there . . . but your girl here is in some serious trouble.”

I stare at the warrant. At the charge of accessory to attempted murder. At the name “Vaughn Dillinger” on it. And while none of it makes any sort of sense to me, I know it would be perfect for a man like Carter Preston to see. To threaten with. To hold over Vaughn’s head to try to coerce her—to blackmail her—into doing exactly what he wanted.

“How come it names her as Vaughn Dillinger and not Vaughn Sanders?” I ask. “Same goes for Samantha?”

“Maybe the Dillingers rejected how her mother changed her name? Maybe they felt slighted and wanted to claim her back?”

“Or maybe they didn’t want her caught?” I propose.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if she legally goes by Vaughn Sanders, then file the warrant under Vaughn Sanders and it’s easier for the law to search for her and find her. File the warrant under a name she doesn’t legally hold and . . .”

“And it’s a window dressing for everyone to think you’re prosecuting.”

I twist my lips and lower myself to my seat and try to imagine myself in Vaughn and Samantha’s shoes. Scared, motherless, abused. The need to survive, to thrive, and Samantha’s need to protect her sister from that monster at any cost.

Good for you, Samantha. I never met you, but I admire you more now than ever. Protect what’s yours at all costs.

Just like I will.

With a purse of my lips, I toss the copies of the warrants onto the table, lean back in my chair, and meet Stuart’s eyes.

“Something doesn’t make sense here.”

“You feel it too?” he asks as he mimics my posture and sits back in his chair.

“You have an extremely wealthy family. One many know and who have a shit ton of power and influence. One of their prized sons is a fucking pedophile. Maybe they know it, maybe they don’t. But they keep it on the down low if they do, because why risk the scandal that would tarnish their family name, right?” I rise from my seat, my need to work through my thoughts while on my feet as inherent in me as my need for air.

“But then their prized son ends up getting shot.”

“Maybe it’s in his niece’s room in the middle of the night. How would one explain why he was there and why she shot him? Then maybe said niece and sister leave and never come back.” I twist my lips, my eyes veering to the corner of my office in thought. They land on the box Vaughn sent me. It’s still sitting under my credenza, still opened but its contents not fully gone through.

Still reminding me of the hurt I caused her.

“And maybe one niece knows what happened and the other one doesn’t.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” I say with a laugh, but fuck if it doesn’t make perfect sense.

“It is . . . but if you’re a wealthy family trying to hide a secret . . .” His words lead into my thoughts.

“So what are you saying? That there are accusations made of attempted murder against two young teenagers. A robbery gone wrong is what those statements make it sound like. Like they were ungrateful orphans the Dillingers took in. They took care of them, but they were so messed up by the death of their mother that nothing—not even the love and money the Dillingers lavished upon them—could fix them.”

“Are you thinking they pressed charges on principle only?”

“I’m saying money can buy you a shitload of things, including pressing charges and an arrest warrant that never got followed through on.” I turn to look at him. His elbow is on the chair, and he’s running a finger over his jawline in thought as he stares at me. “Think of it this way—you’re a PI who dug this all up quicker than shit, and yet a police force pushed and pressured by an extremely influential family wasn’t able to find two inexperienced teenagers? I find that hard to fucking believe, don’t you, Stu?”