Page 52 of Hunted (Desert Island Duet #2)

Chapter thirty-three

Reece

T hey tell us the house will take over a month to fix. I debate finding a hotel to rent out, but everyone seems to be okay staying at my dad’s house, and now we have even more security, as he has his own men. Really, it’s the safest place we can be.

And I need everyone to be safe right now. Knowing that Darla could have been holding that bomb when it went off has my heart racing in my chest every time I think about it. Even now, it feels like an itch under my skin that I can't quite scratch.

I glance around. Everyone else is scattered around the backyard, lounging in the pool chairs, but I don’t feel like I can relax right now.

Deciding to do something productive, I go in search of my dad. Didn’t he have some papers for me to read, or sign?

I find his office empty, but as I turn to leave, the light catches on a photo on his desk, drawing me closer. I pick it up and smile at the sight of him and me at my prep school graduation. I look so angry there. Was I really like that all the time?

Having Darla back in my life has changed everything.

It’s as if every day the anger continues to dissipate, leaving me…

happy. If only there wa sn’t this incessant threat looming over us.

My fist clenches in anger, and the frame creaks under the pressure.

I quickly let go, and it slips from my hand, landing with a soft thud on the rug beneath his desk.

I kneel down to pick it up, and while I’m there, I spot the corner of a piece of paper peeking out from an odd spot beneath his desk.

I bend lower to get a better look and realize there’s a hidden compartment underneath. I feel around it with my fingers until I find a latch and it pops down. Sitting inside is a large brown file, silent and heavy with secrets, as if daring me to open it.

Why would my dad have a hidden file?

I should just leave it. Close the drawer and pretend I never saw anything.

But I can’t. Just as I was drawn to the picture frame, I’m drawn to the file, needing to know what’s inside.

I grab the file and slowly stand as I flip it over.

It’s unmarked. I open it up and pull the stack of pages out.

I frown as I try to make sense of what I’m reading.

The Danver’s Group name is written all over the pages, along with an alarming number of transfers into the charity division.

No… out of the charity division. These are debits, not credits.

The number is so high, in fact, that the math doesn’t even add up. I’ve seen the company reports and these numbers are much higher.

I flip to another page and scan the document. This one outlines the charity’s profits. Why the fuck is that number so high? This is a charity, it’s not supposed to have any profits.

I scan down and see multiple dates and amounts listed.

The first line item simply states Asset 6544 - sold , the next one Asset 6545 - sold , and so on down the page.

I flip the page and find row after row of these same transactions.

The price varies but not by much, and each is a large amount of money.

What could the charity possibly have been selling—

My blood runs cold as the pieces finally click in place. There’s only one thing I believe that warehouse has been selling for decades. People.

“What the fuck?” I ask out loud, unable to believe what I’m seeing. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the papers spread across the desk and my brain tries to make sense of what I’m seeing.

“Oh, Son. I really wish you hadn't seen that.”

I freeze. My father’s voice is calm, almost tired.

I look up at him, seeing him in a way I’ve never seen him before.

He’s never been the type of dad who’s warm and fuzzy, who takes you outside to learn to catch, but I always thought when it came down to it, he was there for me.

A solid presence. Someone I could count on, even if I had to dig through layers of silence to get there.

But now? That whole idea shatters like glass.

I think back to when both planes went missing and how quickly he tried to encourage me to move on. To stop asking questions. To focus on the future . I thought he was just trying to protect me from grief. But what if it wasn’t about protecting me at all?

A sudden, terrifying thought has my face grow pale as I look up at him. It can’t be true… and yet…

“What have you done?”

He presses his lips together tightly, like my question annoys him.

“It was you. Wasn't it? You're the one that told Frank to plant that bomb on their plane. You tried to kill them. You were the reason that Darla ended up on that fucking nightmare of an island!”

I hear the words come out of my mouth, but it’s like someone else is speaking. I feel like I’ve left my body, watching this entire moment unravel from above. My father—the man who raised me—is a murderer. Worse than a murderer. He’s a monster.

“Donald was a smart man; it was only a matter of time before he put two and two together. Edward was a different story. I could’ve kept him in the dark for years. The man was a fool.”

It's true . He’s not even denying it. Just brushing it off like it's inevitable. Like it was business . My stomach churns. I want to vomit.

“All of this was to cover up the human trafficking you were doing in Kenya?”

Please say no. Please tell me I’ve got this wrong, that I’m jumping to conclusions. But in my gut, I already know the answer.

“I don't think I’d do well in prison, Son. Neither would you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I go to prison? I have nothing to do with this shit!”

“That's not what the paperwork says.”

I look back at the pages, fingers trembling as I scan the signatures again. Maurice Benson . Slipped in under fake divisions and forged authorizations. This whole time, I thought he was grooming me to take over the company. But he wasn’t handing me a legacy. He was handing me a goddamned time bomb.

“Why would you do this? Are you trying to frame me, your own son?”

“No, you have it all wrong. I'm not doing this to you, I'm doing this for you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, my hands clenching the papers I’m holding so hard they crinkle in my fist.

“Don't you see? This sets you up for life. All the money you could ever imagine. You can do anything. Think of everything you could accomplish at Titan Tech with the kind of money that this brings in. ”

He still thinks I care about money ? About power? All I ever wanted was to build something for myself, something real.

“I don't understand, why would you even bother with this? The Danver’s Group brings in enough money as it is.”

He chuckles lightly. “Oh, Son, don't you understand? This is the Danver’s Group. There's nothing else left.”

I shake my head. “What the fuck do you mean? There’re hundreds of employees, if not thousands. I've been looking at the annual reports for years.”

“It's all falsified. None of it exists. I've been selling it off slowly over the years and moving that money into the more… shall we say, profitable side of the business?”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. All of it. Fake .

“You mean human trafficking.” The words feel filthy in my mouth.

“It's not like we're taking people from their homes and selling them. Our men are professional; they find people who won't be missed.”

“And that makes it all okay?”

“Who’s to say I’m not making the world a better place? I’m taking people that are a drain on resources and finding them a purpose in life. In turn, you can use the profits to make your tech.”

He actually believes this. That he's doing the world a favor. That money absolves everything. I look at him, but I don’t see my father anymore. I see someone demented and twisted.

“And I suppose you don’t get anything out of this?”

“Isn’t the knowledge that my son is taken care of, enough?”

I narrow my eyes at him in disbelief until he eventually rolls his eyes. “I may take a small percentage for myself, but since I’m the one who organized this whole thing, I think it’s well justified. ”

There it is. The truth in its purest, ugliest form. It was never about the family or the company or some twisted form of legacy. It was always about him .

And he’s in charge of everything.

The plane crashes.

The warehouse.

The mercenaries.

“You tried to have me killed!” I seethe at him. The rage rises so quickly it makes me dizzy.

“No, I was very clear about them not harming you,” he says with a frustrated frown.

I don’t know who I hate more in this moment, him… or the version of myself that ever trusted him.

“Oh, so you just hired men to kill my best friends in front of me and what? I’m just supposed to carry on with my life like nothing happened?”

He presses his lips together tightly, clearly frustrated with how I’m taking this. Well, he’s not the only frustrated one here. No, not frustrated, angry .

“I don’t even understand why you’re trying to have them killed?”

“They were going to find the warehouse; I couldn’t have that happen.”

“Yeah, well, we found it and shut it down, anyway. And you were in the clear, we thought it was all Frank. Why did you keep trying to have them killed?” I can’t make sense of any of this.

“Maurice, Son…” He pinches the bridge of his nose like I’m the annoying one. “I’m not trying to kill your friends. Not anymore.”

“But you—”

“I’m trying to get rid of her .”

His words stun me to silence as my brain works overtime trying to fit all the pieces together.

I’d assumed the assassination attempts had been for the guys, but when I think back on it, nothing was directed at any of them individually, not since we shut down the warehouse.

And Darla was always there when one happened.

“You’re trying to kill Darla?” My chest constricts in pain at not only the thought of losing her, but that my own father would try to take her from me. The human trafficking on its own is unforgivable, but somehow this feels worse. “Why?”