Page 58 of His Verdict

He leans forward, his eyes pleading. This is the real pitch.

“They said the deal could extend to you,” he says, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “You could come with us. Testify too. They know he coerced you. You’re a victim here, just like the rest of us. We can walk away from all of this, Olivia. Get out while you still can. Before you're in too deep.”

Too deep.The phrase is almost laughable. I am the fucking abyss.

I listen. I nod. I project an aura of thoughtful consideration. I am performing the role of a woman weighing her options. I even take a small notebook and a pen from my purse.

“And the immunity would be comprehensive?” I ask, my voice clinical, professional. “It would cover any and all actions taken while under the employ of Wolfe Acquisitions?”

“Everything,” he says, relief flooding his face. He mistakes my line of questioning for genuine interest. He thinks I’m like him. A cornered animal looking for an escape hatch. “They just want Jasper. With both of us testifying to what we saw, they’ll have him. He’ll never see the outside of a prison cell again.”

I make a few notes. I ask about the logistics of the WITSEC program. I ask about asset protection. I am a lawyer conducting due diligence. I am a snake, coiling, assessing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

After twenty minutes of this, I close my notebook. I offer him a small, tight smile.

“Thank you, David. You’ve given me a lot to consider.” I slide out of the booth. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to use the restroom.”

He nods, a hopeful, desperate look in his eyes.

I don’t go to the restroom.

I walk past the hostess stand, through the heavy glass doors, and out into the crisp autumn air. The noises of the city—the traffic, the distant sirens, the chatter of pedestrians—are a world away from the sealed tomb of the penthouse. I find a quiet alcove between two buildings. I pull out my phone.

My first instinct is to call Jasper. To tell him about the betrayal.

But he’s unreachable. That was his choice.

Now I will make mine.

My thumb hovers over his name in my contacts list, then scrolls past it. I find the number I’m looking for. A number I have never called before, but one I added to my phone months ago, for a contingency I never thought I would have to execute myself.

Katherine. Jasper’s executive assistant. The polite, ruthlessly efficient woman who schedules his appointments, manages his travel, and coordinates his cleanup crews.

She answers on the first ring. “Yes?”

Her voice is cool, sterile, devoid of any emotion.

“Katherine, it’s Olivia Sutton.”

There is a beat of silence. I can almost hear the gears turning in her hyper-efficient brain.

“We have a problem at The Mid-City Grill,” I say, my voice as steady and cold as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Table 14. The name is David Morrison.”

I pause, letting the unsaid words fill the space between us. I am not asking for advice. I am issuing a directive. I am assuming an authority I have no right to claim.

There is no hesitation on the other end of the line. No clarifying questions. No shock. Just a crisp, professional acknowledgment.

“Understood.”

The line clicks dead.

I stand in the alley for a moment, the phone heavy in my hand. My heart is not racing. My hands are not shaking. I feela profound and terrifying calm. A hollow certainty. I have just signed a man’s death warrant.

I walk back into the restaurant. I slide back into the booth. Morrison looks up at me, a hopeful question in his eyes.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Perfectly,” I say, picking up my wine glass. “So, you were telling me about your son’s soccer team? Are they having a good season?”