My pulse skyrockets when I notice the digits displayed at the end of the transfer match Isaac’s personal bank account—the one he’s adamant only he can handle. Upon noticing the funds are being deposited, not withdrawn, my eyes absorb the name at the top of the bank statement:Kristin Lieberman.
I say her name a few times, certain I’ve heard it before but unsure when. It’s familiar, but not, if that makes any sense?
Realizing I have the means to satisfy my curiosity directly in front of me, I snatch Brandon’s laptop from under his arm, toss it onto the taxi’s warm hood, then log into his account. I could ask Brandon who she is, but my trust is still low.
Time comes to a standstill when my Google search of Kristin’s name returns numerous hits. Most are dated, but they all center around one main event in her life: the death of her husband and much loved agent, Dane Lieberman.
“When was he killed?”
Although I’m speaking to myself, Brandon answers my question. My heart squeezes when he points to Dane’s obituary that reveals the date of his death.
Oh god.It was the day Alex and I broke up.
Fighting through the tears burning my eyes, I hit the image tab at the top of the searches. It brings up a few matches, men in their late sixties and a handful of women, but the ones halfway down are responsible for the tear gliding down my cheek. Although he’s years younger, youth can’t conceal Alex’s cut jaw and piercing blue eyes. He’s standing next to a dark-haired man. They have lacrosse sticks in their hands and grubby, sweaty faces.
Against Brandon’s advice, I click on the photo. It proves what I suspected: Alex’s dark-haired friend is Dane. He and Alex attended the same college. They’re photographed several times with a petite blonde named Kristin.
My eyes stray to Brandon. “How did he die?”
While rubbing a kink in his neck, he grumbles, “He killed himself.”
“Why?” My question is insensitive, but I’m struggling to believe Brandon’s reply. My quick scroll through Dane’s photos reveals he lived a wonderful life. “He had a beautiful wife, an illustrious career, and two gorgeous daughters. Why would he leave that?”
Brandon shrugs again. “Maybe he was depressed?”
“But why, Brandon?!” My squeal gains us the eyes of many Ravenshoe locals.
After wordlessly pleading for me to calm down, Brandon takes over the reins of his laptop. Because he keeps the screen in my line of sight, I let him.
Faster than I can snap my fingers, he brings up a string of reports. The giant confidential watermark covering them reveals he’s stepped over the line to show them to me, but it has nothing on the emotions slamming into me when I see the signature scribbled on the bottom of them.
A. Rogers.
It takes me breathing in and out four times before my eyes follow the commands of my brain; then it takes me reading the report three times before the information sinks in. Dane was the man Alex carried down the meadow on his back at Substanz. He placed his life on the line trying to save his fellow agent and friend.
Although both their lives were spared that day, Dane’s life was irrefutably affected. The bullet that entered his stomach and exited his back drained the cerebrospinal fluid from his spine. When the doctors attempted to repair it, his spinal cord was severed, resulting in paralysis from the waist down.
I take a step back as sickening remorse twists my gut. Now everything makes sense. Alex’s dislike of Isaac. His absence the months following our break up. Even the guilt that flared through his eyes when we wrestled in the cow-dung meadow can be excused. Those suffering remorse don’t understand that it’s okay to enjoy life. The instead of our heart. How do I know this? It’s the sick and twisted game I’ve been playing for over nine years.
After closing Brandon’s laptop, I hand it back to him. “Thank you for showing me that.”
He dips his chin but remains worried. “Are you going to tell Izzy about today?”
“I won’t have anything to tell her if you tell her first.”
He seems confused by my reply, but I don’t have time to spell it out for him. First, I need to caution Isaac that my laptop has been compromised, then I need to confront Alex. . . or comfort him?I truly don’t know.
But there is one thing I do know: nothing will be solved standing here. With that in mind, I slide into the back of the taxi, leaving Brandon stranded on the corner of Tivot and St. Thomas Street.
The ten minutes it takes to travel to Isaac’s nightclub passes in a blur. I’m shrouded by so much confusion, I don’t stop to savor the building that’s helped the digits in my bank account jump from six figures to seven the past eight months.
I’m so entranced by my thoughts, I don’t even realize Isaac is on a call until he says, “Regan is here; I’ll call him,” into his phone.
The haze in my head grows when he shouts, “Brandon.”
I swallow several times in a row.Why is he talking to Brandon?I suggested for him to reach out to Isabelle, not Isaac. If that bloodsucking scum is ratting me out, he’ll regret it for years to come.
My eyes bounce between Isaac’s stern gaze when he says, “Thank you for your help; please keep me updated on Hugo.” Although his words are strained, they reveal his genuine thanks for Brandon’s help.
