Page 70 of Reveal

“I think if I were in the Dillingers’ shoes and I knew exactly what was going down with Uncle Creep-Fest, I’d probably turn a blind eye too. I’d level those charges against the sisters to help protect my bullshit family reputation. I’d hope it would be a deterrent for them to come anywhere near the town of Greenwich—let alone Connecticut—because the farther away they are, the less chance they have of coming back as grown adults.”

“And the accusations made by grown adults hold so much more weight than those asserted by grieving kids.” I shake my head. “Shit.”

“You about summed it up with that one word.”

With my fingers fiddling with a pen, I hang my head and stare at my tie as I contemplate the believability of our theory. But I know it’s more than believable. I know that two grown men who have never even talked about this just both came to the same conclusion. That says a whole hell of a lot.

“A safeguard to protect your dirty family secret,” I murmur.

“I find it rather odd that when you search the Greenwich Gazette there isn’t one story about James Dillinger and his run-in with thieves. Not a single mention. His interviews mention his paralysis, how it doesn’t hold him back from creating his brilliant economic theories, but nothing about the tragedy that took his mobility or the person responsible for it. That’s more than odd.”

“Small towns. Big money. Bigger family name. Deal with the paralysis without any fanfare, press the charges so you can keep up the front, but with all that clout, tell the police department not to pursue the assailants. They were just confused kids still grieving the loss of their mother. We’ll forgive them. Blah, blah, blah.”

Is this Vaughn’s secret? Does she know about this, or did Samantha keep yet another thing from her sister? Did Samantha turn to the drugs to ease the pain of the abuse and to deal with the guilt of actually hurting a human being in order to save another?

With my head leaned back and eyes closed, I run through the scenario piece by piece, motive by motive, appreciating the moment Stuart gives me to deal with my thoughts.

I can hear his movements about my office: his shoes on the floor, the snap open of the cupboard, the glasses clinking, and the sound of the bottle being set down on top of the credenza.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I take the whiskey from him, mind still mulling over all of these maybes.

“Are you going to tell her?” he asks and takes a seat again.

“No.”

“No?” He sounds as surprised as I was by the word when it came out of my mouth.

I fall quiet again, the repercussions of telling her and not telling her a never-ending loop through my mind.

Does she know about her uncle? Was she there when Samantha pulled the trigger in self-defense? Is that why she’s so scared of Carter outing her publicly? Or did she leave in the middle of the night at her sister’s insistence without a clue as to what had happened? And if that is the case, then what exactly has her so spooked by Carter’s reference to her uncle?

“No,” I reiterate, the irony not lost on me that I’ve hung up on Vaughn in the past for saying the same word.

“No about knowing about this,” he says and waves to the papers all over the desk, “or no to telling her that you personally know the Dillingers?”

“Not sure, but what I do know is that I’m going to pay the motherfucker a visit myself.”

“You think that’s smart?”

“No. It’s going to take every ounce of restraint I have to not wrap my hands around his throat and finish the job Samantha started . . . but going there is something I need to do.” To protect Vaughn. To nullify anything Carter thinks he has over her. To feel like I can do something right as a man to help the woman I love.

“You need any backup, I’ll be glad to tag along.”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “I’ve got this.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I’m going to pay him a visit, threaten him within an inch of his goddamn life to drop the charges and to never come near Vaughn again. Then I’ll finally use the open invitation I get every year and show up at the Sunday family dinner of my old college roommate, Chance Dillinger. I’ll sit right across from his old, poor, paralyzed uncle named James and make sure he understands that I mean business. And if he doesn’t, then I’ll be sure to let his whole goddamn family—as well as most newspapers in the country—know about what exactly happened.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Stuart asks with a chuckle that says he’d love to watch every minute of my confrontation.

“Not going to apologize for it either.” I flash a smile his way that I’m sure is loaded with deviance.

“Everything else you needed is right here on your desk,” he says, followed by the plop of a stack of papers.

“Thanks. I’ll give it a look later.” I take a long sip from my glass.

“Give me a heads-up when you decide to go.”