Page 48 of His Verdict
“Liv? Olivia, are you there?” His voice is a frantic, worried whisper. It’s a tone I’ve never heard from him before, stripped of its usual arrogance.
“What do you want, Marcus?” I say, my voice flat and cold.
“Thank God,” he breathes, a wave of relief in his voice. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve been so worried.”
“I told you not to worry about me,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he insists, his voice dropping. “Liv, I’ve been doing some digging. This firm, Donovan & Creed… it’s a phantom. It’s got a paper trail a mile long, but it all leads to shell corporations and offshore accounts. There’s something wrong here. Something doesn’t add up. And this guy, Donovan… nobody knows who he is. He’s a ghost. This is dangerous. You need to get out of there.”
My blood runs cold. The stupid, privileged, arrogant fool. He’s been digging. He’s been poking the sleeping dragon with a sharp stick. He has no idea what he’s messing with.
“You need to stop,” I say, my voice a low, urgent hiss. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you think you’re uncovering, you need to stop right now. Forget this number. Forget my name. Stay away from me, Marcus. For your own good.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, his confusion evident. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Did he threaten you? Liv, I can help. My father has connections…”
“Your father’s connections are children’s toys,” I spit, the words laced with a terror he can’t possibly understand. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
I hang up on him. My hand is shaking. The fool. The goddamn, noble, idiotic fool. He thinks he’s saving me. He doesn’t realize he’s signing his own death warrant.
For two days, I live in a state of suspended dread. Every time my phone rings, I expect it to be my mother, crying, telling me that Marcus is missing. Every news report I see, I expect to be about a young, promising lawyer found dead in a tragic, inexplicable accident.
The call comes on the third morning. But it's not what I expect. It’s my mother, and she is crying, but Marcus isn’t dead.
“Olivia, honey, something terrible has happened,” she sobs into the phone. “It’s Marcus. He was in a car accident last night. A hit and run. Someone just… ran him off the road. He’s in the hospital. He has a broken leg, a concussion, three broken ribs… but the doctors say he’s going to be okay. He’s lucky to be alive.”
Lucky to be alive. The words echo in my ears. This wasn’t an attempt on his life. This was a message. A warning shot. A beautifully, brutally calibrated act of violence designed to say one thing:Stand down.
Jasper. I don’t even have to ask. I know it was him. He must have been listening to my calls. Of course he was. He found out Marcus was digging, and he sent a clear, unequivocal message.
It’s not just my life that is forfeit. It’s everyone I’ve ever cared about. They are all targets now. Their safety is conditional, dependent entirely on my good behavior. This is what it means to be with him.
A cold, hard resolve settles in my bones. I comfort my mother, my voice a calm, soothing lie. I tell her I’ll visit the hospital as soon as I can, another lie. I cannot see Marcus. I cannot be seen with him. To do so would be to put another, more final, target on his back. I have to sever the ties. I have to become an island. Much as I dislike him, he doesn’t deserve to die.
The next morning, everything explodes.
I’m in my office early, trying to lose myself in the sterile logic of a corporate merger. The sun is just beginning to rise, painting the city in soft shades of orange and pink. The office is quiet, just a few early risers like myself.
And then, I hear it. A commotion from the lobby. Shouted commands. The sound of heavy, running footsteps.
I stand, my heart instantly leaping into my throat. I look out my office door and see them. A swarm. At least two dozen people in dark blue jackets with three gold letters emblazoned on the back: FBI. They are moving with a swift, organized, military precision, fanning out through the office, barking orders at the terrified junior associates who are just arriving with their morning coffee.
“Federal agents! We have a warrant! Nobody touch their computers! Hands where I can see them!”
It’s a raid. A full-scale, shock-and-awe federal raid.
They swarm the file rooms, the server rooms, pulling out hard drives, boxing up documents. They are not gentle. They are tearing through the pristine, orderly world of Donovan & Creed like a hurricane.
My first thought, a cold, selfish stab of fear, is for Jasper. Is he here? Is he safe? My second thought is more practical. The files. The ones from my own secret, late-night discovery. The files on Amelia, Catherine, and Isabelle. Are they here?
But the agents aren’t interested in the personnel files. They are focused, their movements targeted. They are heading for the Meridian Technologies integration archives. The files from the takeover. The ones I refused to touch.
A familiar face emerges from the chaos. Agent Jennings. She is calm, in command, a director in the middle of her own perfectly orchestrated play. She walks directly toward my office, her expression a mixture of grim determination and something that looks a little like pity. She stops in my doorway. Two armed agents flank her.
“Hello, Olivia,” she says, her voice low, cutting through the surrounding noise. “It would seem the wheels of justice, though they grind slowly, do eventually grind.”
“What is this?” I ask, my own voice a steady, cold counterpoint to the chaos.
"Remember our chat at the courthouse, Olivia?" Agent Jennings doesn't bother with preamble. "The Meridian executive who was ready to talk?"