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“No.”

The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

“No, Mitchell. I was not researching your grandfather.”

Silence.

“What?”

“I never researched Garrison Knight before yesterday.”

Another beat.

“I knew who he was, obviously. I knew he was your grandfather. I knew he was important to you. But I wasn't investigating him.”

“Layla—”

“I was investigating you.”

That shuts him up.

“You were the story. You and the Rovers. Why a man who can invest in practically anything chose a rugby team that was losing money. Why you kept pouring money into it. Why the Carolina Rovers mattered so much to Mitchell Knight.”

My throat tightens.

Because I know the answer now.

Or at least part of it.

And suddenly even that feels tainted.

“Garrison wasn't even on my list until yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yes. Yesterday. When your fucking assistant walked into your office and told me he should be.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

“Myrna?”

“Yes, fucking Myrna!”

“What did Myrna say to you?”

“Oh, now you want to ask questions?”

“Layla.”

“No. You don't get to do that. You called me and decided I was guilty before I got two fucking sentences out.”

“I saw the article⁠—”

“So did I!”