Chapter 3
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the journal heavy in my hands.
For ten years, I’d only had rumors and scraps of evidence. Hints that my father’s conviction had been rigged. Whispers from former coworkers that the Whitakers had threatened jurors and paid off the judge. But this? This was proof. Every date, every name, every dirty detail written down like a trophy.
Arthur Whitaker had written the entry about my father three days after the arrest.
Thomas Carter is a stubborn fool. Refused to sign off on the bridge inspection reports. Said the supports were faulty, that people would die. I told him we’d pay him triple his salary to look the other way. He said he’d go to the press. So we made him the fall guy. Framed him for the pension fund theft. The jury took two hours to convict. His wife and little girl will be destitute by Christmas. Good. Let that be a lesson to anyone who crosses the Whitakers.
I closed my eyes.
I was twelve years old when the police took my father away. I remembered standing on the porch, holding my mother’s hand, watching him get shoved into the back of a squad car. He’d looked back at me and mouthed, “Be brave.” I never saw him again outside of a prison visiting room.
My mother had spent every last dollar we had on lawyers. None of them would take the case. The Whitakers owned every law firm in the city. When my father died, we couldn’t even afford a proper headstone. We buried him in a potter’s field with a wooden cross that rotted away within a year.
A low groan pulled me back to the present.
Graham was waking up. He blinked a few times, confused, then his hand flew to the bruise on his temple. He saw the open safe. He saw the journal in my hands.
His face went white.
“Where did you get that?” he croaked, trying to sit up. “That’s private property. You have no right—”
“Your father wrote about my dad,” I said, opening the journal again. “Right here. He says my father was a stubborn fool. That he deserved what he got. That he was glad we were destitute.”
Graham’s mouth snapped shut. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d been twenty-two when it happened. Old enough to understand exactly what his family was doing. Old enough to stop them. He’d chosen not to.
“You knew,” I said, standing up. The journal felt like it was burning through my palms. “You knew the whole time I was dating you. You knew who I was. You still thought you could use me as your scapegoat.”
“I didn’t know!” Graham lied, scrambling backward until his back hit the bed frame. “My father handled all the business stuff! I was just a kid! I didn’t have anything to do with your dad!”
I walked over to him and dropped the journal on his chest. The page was still open to the entry about my father.
“Read it,” I said.
“I’m not going to—”
I grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at me. My voice was ice.
“Read it out loud. Or I’ll go into that closet and read every single page of your father’s confessions to your mother while she listens. I want to see which one of you breaks first.”
Graham’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He picked up the journal with shaking hands. His voice cracked as he read the words his father had written. When he finished, he dropped the journal like it was on fire.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, I knew. But I didn’t have a choice! My father would have disowned me! He would have cut me off without a dime! What was I supposed to do?”
I stared at him. For two years, I’d let him pretend to love me. I’d let him buy me flowers, take me to fancy dinners, propose in front of a hundred people. I’d faked every smile, every kiss, every “I love you.” I’d thought there was a small, weak part of him that might be redeemable.
I was wrong. There was nothing inside him but cowardice and greed.
“You were supposed to tell the truth,” I said. “You were supposed to have a conscience. But you’re just like the rest of them. A spoiled, selfish little boy who thinks other people’s lives are toys he can break when he gets bored.”
“I can pay you,” Graham said, desperation making his voice sharp. “I have twenty million in an offshore account my father doesn’t know about. I’ll give you all of it. I’ll leave the country. I’ll never come back. You’ll never have to see me again. Just let me and my mother go.”
“Twenty million dollars,” I said, almost laughing. “You think that’s enough to pay for my father’s life? For my mother’s? For the seven men who died on that bridge because your family cut corners? For every other person you’ve destroyed?”
“I’ll give you more!” he said. “I have property in Aspen, a yacht in the Caribbean—”
“I don’t want your money,” I said. “I want justice. And you and your family are going to give it to me. One way or another.”
From the closet, we heard Vivian screaming. The sound was muffled, but sharp.
“Graham! Graham, get me out of here! That girl is a maniac! She’s going to kill us!”
Graham’s eyes flicked toward the door. For a second, I saw him think about it. About rushing me, about overpowering me, about saving himself. I shifted my weight slightly, ready for him to try.
He didn’t. He just shrank back, his shoulders hunched.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t hurt her. She’s my mother.”
“Your mother laughed when my father died,” I said. “She told my mother she deserved to be a widow. She called me trash to my face at every family dinner. She helped plan to lock me in a psych ward for the rest of my life. Why in the world would I show her any mercy?”
Graham had no answer.
I picked up the journal and walked back to the safe. I found a stack of USB drives tucked in the back. I plugged one into my phone. It contained thousands of emails. Between Arthur, Vivian, Graham, city officials, police officers, judges. All of them taking bribes. All of them covering up crimes.
One email chain caught my eye. Dated three days before the wedding.
From: Vivian Whitaker
To: Graham Whitaker
Subject: The Carter girl
Make sure the forged medical proxy is signed before the reception ends. Once we’re married, we move fast. Hale will commit her within forty-eight hours. We drain her accounts, plant the embezzlement evidence in her apartment, and the case is closed. Arthur says this is the cleanest frame-up we’ve ever done. No loose ends.
From: Graham Whitaker
To: Vivian Whitaker
Relax. She’s so in love with me she’d sign anything I put in front of her. She actually thinks I care about her. Stupid bitch.
I closed the email. My hands didn’t shake. I’d known this was coming. I’d planned for it. But reading the words he’d written—words I’d never been supposed to see—still sent a jolt of cold rage through my chest.
I turned back to Graham. He was watching me, his eyes wide.
“You told your mother I was a stupid bitch,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said quickly. “I was just—”
“Just what?” I said. “Just telling her what she wanted to hear? Or just saying what you really thought?”
He didn’t answer.
I grabbed the leather whip he’d brought into the bedroom—the one he’d planned to use on me. I coiled it loosely in my hand. Graham flinched.
“Get up,” I said.
“W-what are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to hit you,” I said. “Not yet. But you’re going to help me get everything I need to take down your family. Every account number, every password, every name of every person you’ve bribed. And if you lie to me even once? I’ll leave you and your mother locked in that closet until you starve. And I’ll make sure the police find the journal right next to your bodies. Everyone will think you killed each other in a fight over the money. No one will even care.”
Graham stood up slowly. His legs were shaking.
“O-okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t hurt us.”
May you like
I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Good,” I said. “Because we have a long night ahead of us. And by the time the sun comes up? The Whitaker reign of terror in this city is going to be over. Forever.”
