Page 48

“That’s the one.” I talk to myself, confirming it is.
To free up my hands, I lay the files I’ve been holding on the floor.
Adrenaline courses through my body, making everything feel more intense, stress and excitement blending together under the weight of the risk I’m taking. I reach up and slide the box out of the space it’s probably not moved from in over a decade and clumsily pull it down off the shelf, catching the heavy box in my arms with ahumph. This is the moment I’ve been planning for years and yet I feel so unprepared.
My awareness on high alert, I dart my eyes around the space to check I’m alone, even though I know I am. I hug the box close to my chest and walk toward a table at the end of the aisle.
Quickening my pace, every step closer to uncovering the truth, I cradle the box full of information in my arms as if it’s precious gold, which it is to me.
Hands shaking, I place the box gently down on the table when I reach it and curse at myself when I can’t make my trembling fingers work to open the closure tab.
I lay my hands out in front of me before drawing in a deep breath through my nostrils and then out through my mouth to steady me.
“You’ve got this, Ari,” I whisper to steady myself.
I flip the corrugated cardboard lid open and push it back to reveal the paperwork documenting the car crash that killed my family and the man who ran off and left us all to die. The memories I have from that night flash through my brain like a picture flip book, the images animated and slightly hazy in places, recreating what it remembers from that night. Which isn’t as clear as it used to be. It’s as if my brain has blocked out the finer details of that night but I remember the impact of the crash, the ambulance, the ride to the hospital, the fire department, and the police interviews.
The skin on my scar tugs and tingles in response as if recalling what happened that night too.
Pulling the files within the box out, one after the other, I memorize the order they came out in and go directly to the file marked “Evidence,” which I have seen numerous times before because the case is available to the public. But I’m not looking for what I already know, I’m looking for the information I suspect Nathan’s father Daniel hid to protect his client.
I’m convinced Kevin Taylor was under the influence of drugs or alcohol the evening he killed my lovely mom, dad, and sister, and I don’t think the witness that was called to testify was telling the truth. There is no way there was an oil spill earlier that day, or that the foggy weather conditions made it difficult to see. My father didn’t miss the warning signs that night. It wasn’t his fault.
There just has to be more to it.
I search the names of the detectives and criminal investigators, mentally taking note that it doesn’t correlate with what Julie said. Everyone involved was called forward to testify, so what was she talking about when she said not everyone did?
Something doesn’t add up.
Twenty minutes pass by, and frustrated, I plonk myself down on one of the chairs around the table and run my hands throughmy hair, staring at a piece of paperwork before me which has been redacted.
Now that is new to me, but I can’t see what’s written on it. Even when I hold it up to the light, the black lines don’t give anything away.
A feeling I know all too well creeps in, disappointment overwhelming me, and I think I could cry at how devastated I am that I didn’t find anything.
I was convinced there would be something to pin falsifying information, concealing evidence, witness tampering, or anything that would uncover the truth that Nathan’s father was corrupt. Maybe that’s what’s hidden within the redacted letter between Nathan’s father and Kevin Taylor, but surely not. This letter looks different and is personally handwritten.
Like a letter between friends almost.
As I look at the files, everything I seem to do only makes me hit a dead end.
Assuming that any shady dealings would be in this file was naive of me.
I feel like such an idiot.
Every piece of information is documented clearly and concisely, as the law dictates, making the records I have read several times before perfect.
Which is just like every other file held within this room. Nathan and his brothers follow the law to the letter, something I didn’t think their father did.
I can’t be wrong about that; I just can’t be.
But maybe I am.
Maybe I’m wrong about it all.
In case I’ve missed anything, I slide my phone out of the pocket of my dress pants and photograph the information to study again later, specifically the censored letter.
I hope it’s the key to uncovering the truth.