Page 123 of The Lilac River

“Okay then.” Nash gave a nod. “Let’s do this.”

He followed Gunner to the table, where several folders were already spread out, corners fraying, edges creased from frantic hands.

“Time to see exactly what the old man’s been hiding.”

The next few minutes passed in stunned silence.

Each of us picked through the evidence like archaeologists uncovering a long-lost ruin. Nash held a document in a white-knuckled grip. I stared at a remarkably clear, old photograph of my father in a prison yard. Gunner stood behind his chair, handslinked behind his head, staring like he was seeing ghosts. Wilder slumped forward with his forehead resting on the table.

All of it—receipts, letters, photos—proved what we’d long suspected. Michael Miller wasn’t just cruel. He was crooked, manipulative, and utterly without remorse.

“At least now we know who poisoned the creek,” Wilder said eventually, his voice dry as dust.

He gestured to a crumpled receipt for a pesticide barrel.

“He did that,” Nash said, voice low with disbelief. “He ruined his own land.”

“Not just his,” Gunner muttered. “He poisoned the neighbors too.”

Nash shoved the paper back into the pile, muttering something about how the man had no soul.

“And a mistress,” he added a moment later, quieter this time. “Twenty years. No wonder he was always going away onranch business.”

My hand found his. I squeezed. The betrayal cut deeper when it touched the heart of what made them a family.

“I thought he was obsessed with Mom,” Gunner said, his voice breaking. “And he cheated on her. For the last four years of her life.”

He glanced toward a photo of Emily on the shelf.

“She damn well loved him.”

Wilder reached over and rubbed Gunner’s back. “He didn’t deserve her.”

In the chaos of papers was a rental agreement for an apartment in Fort Collins. Co-signed by Margot Williams. The lease was dated twenty years ago. But there was an updated agreement, too, just six months old.

“He doesn’t deserve Margot either,” Nash snapped, distaste clear as he flicked at an envelope of pictures. “Who the hell takes photos of someone during sex clearly without their knowledge?”

Gunner leaned back; jaw clenched. “Collateral. He keeps everything. Just in case.”

“He’s a monster,” Wilder said.

Nash added, “And a dumb one. Who the hell keeps receipts for illegal chemicals?”

“Because he thought no one would ever find them,” I said softly.

“And they wouldn’t have,” Nash replied, lips curling. “If he hadn’t left his little spy pen turned on.”

“James Bond, he is not,” I muttered.

Nash chuckled, then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the shell of my ear. “You’re right, Lila. Not very good at all.”

Gunner leaned in. “What else do we have? Aside from adultery, environmental crime, and blackmail?”

Nash sifted through the documents his brow furrowed. “Photos of Lily’s dad in prison. Bank statements for an offshore account, probably siphoned from the ranch funds.”

My stomach twisted as I spotted a thick manila envelope tucked in between the statements. I pointed.

“What’s that?”