Page 163 of Lucas

Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s affected by the slight angle of his head and the almost imperceptible shift of his broad shoulders. We grew up together. I can read him like a book.

Liam pales, gripping the armrest with white knuckles, his breath coming faster. “This isn’t some sick joke?” he asks, desperation clinging to each word, begging me to laugh and say, “Gotcha!”

But I don’t.

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ. You think Dad...that our father is a goddamn murderer?” Liam looks like he might vomit on the expensive Turkish rug.

“You think I’d gather you here to spout nonsense?” I snap.

“What gave you this absurd notion?” Logan asks in a calm voice. But I’m not fooled. A storm churns behind his eyes. He’s hanging by a thread.

In clipped, emotionless tones, I recount the damning conversation I overheard, each word tasting like bile, acidic and burning. By the end, I’m trembling, my breath coming in harsh pants.

“Th–that proves nothing,” Cora stammers. “Maybe you misunderstood. Perhaps he was talking about something else, like...like in a book or a movie...”

She’s grasping at straws, drowning in denial, and I understand why she would. I have no doubt that hearing this is just as difficult for each of them as it was for me.

“I confronted him, okay?” I cut her off. “I asked him point blank.”

Liam sits ramrod straight, eyes wide as saucers. “And? What did he say?”

I grip the back of an armchair, my fingers digging into the buttery leather. “He didn’t deny it,” I rasp. “He said, ‘It’s not what you think, Son. I need you to trust me.’ But how can I? How can I ever look at him the same way again, knowing he has blood on his hands?”

A heavy, oppressive silence falls as they digest this world-altering revelation, the air crackling with shock and horror.

“Do you know who it was? The person he...” Liam trails off, unable to say the words aloud as if that would make it too real.

I shake my head. “No. He refused to give me any details. Said that it happened twenty goddamn years ago. But then, as I laid awake all night, connecting the dots, I realized that’s when he and Mom?—”

“Started drifting apart,” Logan finishes in a pained whisper, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The timeline fits.”

“Exactly,” I say. “The more I turned it over in my mind, the more I became convinced she knew, or at least suspected. And that’s why they separated—she couldn’t bear to be with him anymore, knowing what he’d done.”

Cora shakes her head, covering her ears. “No. No, you’re wrong. They didn’t separate. They were together until Mom died,” she cries, her voice hitching on a hiccuping sob.

“Were they, though?” I counter, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Think about it, Cora. In the last two years, they never shared a room, never exchanged a single affectionatetouch. They put on a good facade in public but at home? They were practically strangers. Not divorced on paper, but not really together.”

Cora crumples as if I punched her in the gut, folding in on herself.

I lean against the wall, feeling a hundred years old. “That’s why I always assumed he cheated. It was the only thing that made sense. But the truth is so much darker than I ever imagined. And I don’t know what the fuck to do now.” I slide down the wall to sit on the floor, knees drawn to my chest, fingers tangled in my hair.

Logan crosses the room in two long strides and crouches in front of me, gripping my shoulders. “You did the right thing telling us,” he says in a low, soothing rumble. “We’ll figure this out together. You’re not alone in this, Brother.”

“There’s something else,” I rasp.

Three sets of eyes snap to me, wide with dread, the tension ratcheting up to unbearable levels.

I dig in my pocket and pull out the crumpled, innocuous-looking letters. “I’ve been getting threats.”

Logan snatches them from my grasp, his knuckles white. “What the ever-loving fuck, Lucas? Why didn’t you tell us?” he roars.

I cower back, raising my hands in surrender. “That was a fuck-up on my part. I didn’t want to freak you all out over what could be nothing. I figured it was some nut job ex-employee with a grudge. I had a P.I. look into it.”

I can see by the look on Logan’s face that he’s not appeased in the slightest. He springs to his feet, towering over me, eyes wild. “Nothing? This is the furthest fucking thingfrom nothing. ‘Now it’s your turn’—what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I push to my feet, meeting his furious stare head-on. “I didn’t connect the dots, okay? Not until my accident, which the P.I. thinks was no accident at all, by the way. It was too goddamn clean—no evidence, no skid marks, no witnesses. And then there’s Ava’s bike.”

Logan narrows his eyes. “What about Ava’s bike?”