I hadn’t cared about finding the answer since August of last year.
Huh.
The court of public opinion was relentless. A beast that fed on the scraps of truth and spun them into grotesque narratives. My immediate family had become the metaphorical toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a dirty shoe—dragged through the muck, yet still hanging on. Surviving each step of this lawsuit was one thing; watching Richmond Holdings hire the trash, mega-elite promotional company and equally as egregious law firm—known as the bastards of the industry—was quite another.
Of course, my father wouldn’t admit fault. He wouldn’t say, “You caught me. My bad.”
But he also hadn’t made any attempt to quietly negotiate a settlement. Not that we’d accept, but they hadn’t even tried to keep this mess hidden. Instead, their entire battle strategy was to make me into the ultimate villain.
My family, my sweet children, his grandchildren were collateral damage, branded as the unclean filth of my supposed selfishness.
The viral clips were the worst of it. The savagely trolled plaintiffs, their entire lives were turned upside down. And my beautiful husband, Beau. Somehow, he escaped persecution. The public had latched onto his image as the all-American college football-playing, mountain-loving fisherman. His charters were booked solid, even during the off-season. It was as if they’d forgotten he was my husband.
What was I thinking, letting this get to me? Why did my heart hurt every single day? I was a damned good lawyer, how they had wormed their way past my carefully placed walls was a testament of how much I wished things were different. But this wasn’t about me. The abused women deserved better from the system.
Stone had become a family confidant with as much time as he spent consoling and listening to all our clients’ fears. He kept them on track. I felt a big bonus coming his way.
Maybe I was tired. Light dimmed the more exhausted a person was.
As I turned onto our street, I tried to summon my joy. My children were like hound dogs, sniffing out anything that was off. They’d pounce, peppering me with questions until I either lied or left the day behind. Might as well shed the melancholy before I saw them.
The cell phone’s ring startled the shit out of me. Stone’s name appeared on the screen.
A strong urge to ignore the call gripped me, but I answered anyway. “Guy, you’re making a habit of calling after work hours. Put it in an email. I’ll answer as I can. It’s not a hard rule to follow.”
Silence. The kind that stretched so long I checked the screen to see if we were still connected. If I spoke first, he’d win the silence battle. Keyboard clicks clattered in the background.
“The last time I called you after hours was last year. When I called you about this case.”
“Wow,” I said, trying to show my tease. “Correcting your employer? Bold move.”
“It’s not bold. We operate on a platform of open communication to evolve performance and productivity,” he said. “I know because I created the employee handbook.”
“Then not having the company’s best interest is actionable...” I couldn’t say it without laughter. Stone cared more about my company, honestly, our company, than anyone. Oh lord, was I thinking about law school and eventual partnership with Stone? My shoulders tensed.
“Sir, I’m calling for a reason,” Stone said sternly, clearly not seeing my humor. “We received five bags of shredded documents. They arrived a few minutes after you left.”
“Are you saying you received bags of shredded paper?”
“Yes. From an old school shredding machine. Example: let’s shred our documents because we had to print them on paper—because we’re old—kind of shred,” he explained.
My brain zipped through a million thoughts, but Stone’s words still made no sense. Piecing shredded paper together was a 1970’s police-style movie kind of detective work. In the real world, we used flash drives, wiped histories, and VPNs to hide the trail.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “Tell me again.”
“We received five bags of shredded paper, maybe five minutes after you left,” Stone repeated. “The shipment came from Richmond Holdings in downtown Dallas. When I asked who within Richmond sent this to us, they didn’t know.”
Fascinating. “Is there a way to piece the information together?” Seemed a legit next question.
“Not without putting it together strand by strand. It’s not out of the question that this could be an attempt to spin our wheels. I could see their joy in making us put together a graphic message after a weekend’s worth of work,” Stone said.
“And it’s Friday,” I murmured. Beau was going to be angry.
“So where am I going to sleep?” Stone asked.
“Carter built a new guesthouse between us.” Of course Stone knew, but I said it anyway. “We can spread out in there if it’s vacant. I need to see if it’s free. Come on over now. I’ll figure a space for you,” I said, my finger poised to end the call.
“It’ll be more efficient if I can go home and pack a bag on the way to your house.”
