Page 233 of The Billion Heirs Boxed Set

When I was young, I saw him lock that sucker up. I’m not sure if it was to keep me out or to keep the papers in.

“Not anymore,” Shankle counters. “I keep it unlocked now so I can get what I need. I’m looking for some missing documents concerning Racehorse Hauling.”

I raise my eyebrows as I slowly enter the office. “What kind of missing documents?”

Shankle coughs and then clears his throat. “Excuse me. My partner in the white-collar crime division of our firm is working with the EPA and the DOJ, and some key documents seem to be missing from some of your father’s filings. We can’t find them online.”

I roll my eyes. “Shocking.”

Another throat clear. “Get into the cabinet and look for anything marked Racehorse Hauling.”

I have no idea why he didn’t empty the files and take them to his office.

“You think my father would be stupid enough to mark something Racehorse Hauling when he was using them to transport and illegally dispose of hazardous waste?”

“For God’s sake.” Shankle coughs again. “You’re probably right. You won’t know what you’re looking for. I’ll come do it myself.”

“You could have saved yourself ten minutes if you’d done that,” I say. “When should I tell Louisa to expect you?” I’ll be out on the range and like usual, not around to deal with house things. Like answering the front door.

“Sometime after noon,” he says. “Brazee is going to be pissed. He wants this stuff yesterday.”

“Then the two of you should have come over yesterday. Goodbye.”

After ending the call, I turn to leave the dreaded space when my phone, still in my hand, vibrates with a text.

My heart jumps. Maybe it’s Avery. But disappointment looms. It’s spam. I delete it quickly and then, instead of leaving as I planned, I take a look—a real look—at the room that was Jonathan Bridger’s lair.

And lair—a fierce or dangerous animal’s hideout—is definitely the right word. I always knew the bastard was evil, but I didn’t know how evil. How criminal.

“What secrets do you hold?” I ask out loud to the quiet room. With the door closed, the room is musty, but it’s as neat as a pin. Louisa’s doing.

For an instant, I actually expect the space—or my father’s ghost—to answer.

No answer comes, of course, and I stand tall. Inhale.

It’s just a room. Just a fucking room.

Getting Avery back has given me something.

Not courage, exactly, because I was never afraid to come in here. No, fear has never been my problem. I stopped being afraid of my father at age thirteen, when I grew taller than he was. By sixteen, my muscles were bigger than his. Many times I imagined pummeling him into a pulp, but one thing stopped me.

Avery. My love for Avery. She deserved better than an adolescent who used his fists to mete out justice. Even on an asshole parent who deserved it.

Nor did I stay away because of bad memories. I have the memories anyway—the image of my father sitting behind the grand oak desk, telling me what a disappointment I was, how much of a whore my mother was, how I was the reason she left.

But that’s still not why I steer clear of the office.

The reason is actually simple.

The room represents my father, represents everything I never want to be. Staying away became a habit after a while.

But today, something is different. I’m whole again. So much time passed that I forgot what being whole felt like. Avery took a piece of my heart when she disappeared, and now it’s back in place.

And this is just a room.

Simply a room.

Jonathan’s dead and buried. He’s not coming back.