Page 19

THE FIRST GLIMPSE of the city was a punch to the chest. Driving down I-93, I saw the Boston skyline rise on the horizon, a jagged line of steel and glass shimmering in the midday sun.

It was beautiful in a way I had forgotten.

It was stark and unyielding, full of life but also noise and everything I had left behind in my struggle to earn money, be better, and have more .

The Zakim Bridge came into view, its cables stretching like fingers toward the sky, a gateway into the chaos.

As I approached, I gripped the steering wheel tighter, and my heart pounded.

This was it. I was back.

It hit me all at once—what I’d left behind, what I’d given up, and what I might never have again.

The quiet mornings at Sam’s, the scent of woodsmoke and maple, the way he looked at me as if I mattered.

I pulled off at the next gas station, the urgency to get off the road overpowering.

I parked and stared at my phone, Sam’s name lighting up the screen alongside messages I hadn’t opened yet.

How could I explain this?

How could I describe the weight in my chest—the feeling of not wanting to leave him or Caldwell Crossing?

Deep down, I knew that what I’d done and what I’d exposed was bigger than me.

Once the trial started, everything would be public.

The media would swarm like vultures, picking apart every detail.

And no matter how carefully I tried to shield Sam, it would follow me back to him if I returned.

How could I let that happen?

How could sleepy, calm Caldwell Crossing—a town that felt as if it had been plucked from a postcard—handle the whirlwind of media attention, the constant buzz of reporters digging for a scoop?

They’d show up at the farm, cameras in hand, poking around for anything they could use to sell their story.

They’d twist my words, Sam’s words, even Harriet’s kindness into something scandalous.

They’d harass the seasonal workers, disrupt the rhythms of the farm, and destroy the peaceful life Sam cherished.

I’m spiraling.

And Sam?

My sweet, steady Sam, who found joy in the sugarhouse’s steady hum and his friends’ laughter—what would they do to him?

How would he cope with reporters camping outside his cabin, whispering lies about him, about us?

They’d dredge up every moment of my past, every misstep, every bad decision I’d ever made, and paint him guilty by association.

The rumors, the lies, the relentless pressure of it all…

It would taint everything he’d worked so hard to build.

I’m losing my shit.

I won’t let Sam’s world be changed.

I couldn’t stand the thought of it.

Of Conor, Haider, or Ryan being dragged into the mess, their lives scrutinized, and their privacy invaded, of his mom and dad, who only wanted the best for him, having to defend their son from the fallout of my actions.

Of his farm, his life’s work, being turned into a backdrop for headlines that screamed “Whistleblower’s New Hideaway!” or worse.

I gripped my phone tighter, my pulse racing.

How could I let my chaos touch Sam’s perfect world?

The thought of it made me sick.

He deserved so much better than me and the baggage I carried.

How could I ask him to deal with that?

To bear the weight of what I’d exposed and the consequences that followed?

I couldn’t let that happen.

Not to him. Not to Caldwell Crossing.

Not to the people who had already given me more than I deserved.

My thumb hovered over his name on the screen.

How could I tell him this?

How could I say to him that, even though he was everything I wanted, I couldn’t be the one to destroy the peace he loved?

I started typing. Sam, I had to leave for a legal interview because unless there’s a miracle, I need to testify, and my name could be in the public domain.

I wish you were here, and I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.

I’ll see you soon.

Should I add, I love you?

Because I did love him.

The taste of him, his eyes, his love, his everything…

The words felt hollow, inadequate.

But I typed them anyway, staring at the screen.

My finger hovered over send .

But what if I didn’t go back?

Now that I was here, back in the city, it didn’t feel like home.

It felt cold and distant, like stepping into someone else’s life.

What was the point of drawing things out?

How could I ask Sam to wait when I wasn’t sure where I belonged and where one mistake in this trial would have me on major news channels?

The conversation we’d had about kids so far back, and how he kissed and loved me and held my hand as we walked to the overlook…

I wanted that life. I closed the message, leaving it unsent, and rested my head against the steering wheel until my phone buzzed in the cup holder.

I snatched it up—hoping it was Sam checking for me.

It was Theo.

I picked it up reluctantly, listening to the voicemail.

“Ben, are you close? Call me when you’re here.” His voice was calm, steady, and professional.

Everything I wasn’t right now.

I texted back: I’ll be there.

Back on the road, I focused on navigating the familiar streets, trying not to overthink.

I parked near the law offices of Henderson, Miles & Abernathy and walked across the street to a coffee shop.

It was tucked away, a quiet refuge in the city’s chaos.

I was doing the right thing.

I’d keep Sam out of this.

Keep Caldwell Crossing out of this.

It was the best way.

I slid into a booth at the back, nursing a black coffee while my tattered copy of Nelson’s book sat on the table before me.

My gaze flicked to the office building across the street, then back to the book.

The pages were worn, the cover creased, a testament to how many times I’d read it and how it came with me everywhere.

I was trying to find the issues I had the first time when I’d left that stupid review.

And they weren’t as bad as when I first read.

To distract myself, I opened my email and skimmed through messages.

My stomach twisted as I came across the screenshots of Nelson’s latest debate on WordBook .

The thread was long and heated, packed full of defensive comments from Nelson about the integrity of his work.

I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face—what I’d said was shit, but his publishers must hate him getting on a public forum to defend himself, particularly with the trolls on there who kept stirring the pot.

I owed Adam Nelson an apology.

I owed him a response.

I owed him… something.

It was just one more regret in a steaming pile of regrets.

I pocketed my phone and took a long sip of my coffee.

Later.

For now, it was time for the meeting.

THE AIR IN the conference room was filled with tension pressing against my ribs and making breathing harder than it should be.

Theo sat at the head of the table.

His tie was slightly askew, and he had a legal pad in front of him filled with scribbles I couldn’t read upside down.

His team, two junior associates who looked as if they hadn’t slept in days, flanked him, each with their laptops open and fingers poised over their keyboards.

A man I didn’t recognize sat across the table.

He wore a sharp suit, had even sharper eyes, and an expression that screamed corporate shark.

He introduced himself as Calvin Marks, Brad’s lawyer.

Theo reclined in his chair, arms crossed and gaze unwavering.

“Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want?”

Marks didn’t flinch.

“As I explained, my client has a password to key pieces of evidence—that your client, Mr. Marshall, hasn’t been able to access yet.”

“Brad said that?” I snapped and turned to Theo.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Theo shook his head, and I subsided, waiting for more.

Marks cleared his throat.

“As I was saying, my client has evidence that could prove critical to your case against Crendon Harbor Capital.”

My stomach tightened.

“The missing audit files?”

Marks shifted his gaze to me, his expression as sharp as a freshly honed blade.

“Mr. Marshall, my client has disclosed the existence of materials that, if produced, would establish a direct chain of command linking the senior executives of your former firm to the financial irregularities you identified. According to him, these materials—comprising emails, internal memoranda, and other pertinent communications—were retained as a form of leverage.”

He paused, his lips pressing into a thin, disapproving line, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face.

“I was not apprised of this during the trial phase, which is, suffice it to say, a rather glaring oversight. However, their existence changes the calculus considerably. Should these documents be produced, they would incontrovertibly implicate the firm’s ownership in orchestrating and perpetuating the misappropriation of funds. Faced with such evidence, the executives would be compelled to concede guilt and negotiate their penalties, thereby obviating the necessity of a protracted criminal trial.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked Theo.

He narrowed his eyes at Marks, then glanced at me.

“In summary, this evidence— if it even exists—would mean you aren’t accused and wouldn’t have to testify in court.”

“It exists,” Marks said.

Relief began to rise inside me.

Could this be over? “Well, that’s a good thing. We could do that. I want to do that.” I’ll do anything to make this go away.

“It’s not that simple, Ben.” Theo’s brow furrowed, suspicion radiating from him as he shifted his focus back to Marks.

“There must be an angle. Why hasn’t your client handed over this password yet? He’s had plenty of chances, and you say he withheld files and didn’t tell you.”

Marks’ smile wavered a little at the pointing out the lack of client/lawyer trust. “He wants to speak to Mr. Marshall face-to-face.”

My pulse kicked up a notch.

“Why? What could he possibly have to say to me?”

Marks shrugged, his expression neutral.

“My client trusts you with this password.”

“Why now?”

Marks clasped his hands together, leaning forward.

“I would tell you that my client wants to make amends, perhaps clear his conscience. He’s prepared to hand over what you need—on the condition that you meet him.”

Theo’s hand slammed onto the table.

“What’s his angle, Marks? Setting up Ben with media waiting? He’s already threatened to implicate Ben.”

“Really?” I snapped.

“Is that what this is?”

Marks didn’t blink, his calm demeanor almost infuriating.

“No media. There is no angle. Brad sees this as an opportunity to do the right thing while he can.”

Theo leaned back again, the frown lines on his face deepening.

“Right. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with reducing his sentence.”

I glanced between them, my heart pounding, then focused on Marks.

“Is this a game for you and him?”

Marks huffed.

“I can assure you it’s no game, but—”

“That’s enough!” Theo barked, and Marks subsided with a dismissive wave.

Then Theo turned to me, his expression softening.

“If Brad has what we need…”

“Then, I should go.” Was that what Theo wanted me to say?

If I did this and was clear, I could return to Caldwell Crossing and have forever with Sam.

If he didn’t hate me.

Marks stood, straightening his jacket.

“That’s for Mr. Marshall to decide. My client is willing to meet with your client. The choice is yours.” He slid his card across the table and left without another word, his heels clicking against the floor as he disappeared through the door.

Silence settled over the room like a heavy fog.

I stared at Theo. “What do you think?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s risky. Brad’s a wildcard. But if he’s telling the truth and has those documents, it could save you from having to testify. Hell, it could save us all a lot of headaches.”

I stared at the card Marks had left, my mind spinning.

“And if it’s a trap, and he has media there, and it’s a setup to expose to the world, I’m the whistleblower. What if it’s revenge for me handing over the details of what he did?”

Theo pressed a hand to my arm.

“Take a breath, Ben. If it goes to trial, people will likely find out who you are. You’ve known that from the beginning.”

I did know that.

The thought of facing Brad again made my stomach churn, but the alternative—standing in court, reliving every moment of what I’d found, even if it was from behind a screen, was a nightmare.

I swallowed hard, nodding.

“I’ll do it. I’ll meet with him.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

“Let’s prepare for every possible scenario. If this is a game, we’re going to make damn sure we’re the ones who win it. No media. No logging your visit. You’ll need to give me a while to organize.”

“How long?” I want to go back to Sam.

“A couple of days. Okay?”

What else could I say? “Okay.”