Wicked Love | √

Nineteen

DIGGING into the past of the heirs and my brother might not be as easy as I assumed two days ago. Two days ago the agony to know more was searing through me like a wild flame as unwanted tears lined my green eyes. I felt like clawing my own throat out to stop the wave of emotion that wanted to throw me off kilter.

But I have spent the last two days attached to my computer and reviewing every bit of the media available from the trial. Not many official documents from the case are public because of the age of most of the heirs at the time. They were all around fifteen. But Nathaniel was sixteen. Though his father helped to bury as much of the record as possible.

Because for men like Nathaniel Gregory, mistakes don't ruin their futures. They get to pretend they didn't do anything wrong and go on making millions as if no one suffered in the wake of their deathly mistakes.

After tiring hours upon hours of research and finding every little piece of evidence I could I found the name of one of first responders to the scene. A police officer named Tom Reynolds who is now retired. Meaning he might be more willing to speak openly about that night because he isn't tied to his precinct anymore. First responders see a lot of chaos when they show up to scenes and none of it is filtered through the media or high powered lawyers yet. It is all raw and messy and unraveling in front of their very own eyes.

So maybe Tom can tell me about what he saw.

I tell myself I should contact him and go through the proper channels to meet with him and talk about that night to try and uncover the secrets that keep what happened that fatal night in the dark.

But instead of going about this the right way, the way I know I should, I find myself in a small blue collar town not too far from the university. The morning air is chilled as I stand on the front porch of a small duplex with a large wrap around porch that is in dire need of a new coat of paint and some basic upkeep.

I knock once. Twice. Three times as the wind wraps around me and lifts the ends of my dark, unbrushed hair. The blood in my veins is buzzing with the possibility of my biggest questions finally being answered.

A woman opens the door. She's older than me, maybe in her mid to late thirties? Her hair is buzzed short and she has piercings all up her ears and a gold hoop in her nose. She's beautiful, but comes off a bit guarded as she stares at me with a sharp yet curious glare.

"Can I help you?" she asks with the tilt of her head.

My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips. "I am looking for a Tom Reynolds..." I trail hoping I'm not at the wrong house.

I can see the moment the walls I noticed before harden to steel. "Sorry he doesn't take visitors," she says with a harsh finality as she begins to close the door in my face.

My arm snaps out to stop her and that's when my eyes catch an elderly man lying on a hospital bed hooked up to all these tubes in the living room. His dark skin looks ashen and dry and his face is all scrunched up in pain.

I swallow the growing lump in my throat. "Is that him?" I question slowly as I motion hesitantly to the man.

Her eyes narrow. "Who are you?"

I soften. "I'm just someone who wanted to talk to him about a fire. It's nothing. Nevermind," I backtrack, stepping away realizing I've completely overstepped every and all boundaries in coming here. He means something to her. Her father? Her uncle? Whoever he is to her, she loves him that much is clear and I shouldn't interfere.

Her brown eyes flare in recognition at my words and she leans her hip against the door frame. "Even if he was healthy he wouldn't have talked to you about that night," she informs me easily.