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I’m not the only one with that piece of evidence on my mind. Just after lunch, Russell finds me where I’m carefully placing my stolen bread rolls on the windowsill of an unoccupied bedroom to inform me Harold has arrived at the gate and refuses to leave.
I follow Russell on the long walk to the gate. Situated on the outskirts of town, the grounds are huge. Harold’s Bentley is parked at the gate, and he’s standing in front of it like a sulking child, his hands fisted on the iron bars.
“Tell them to open the gate,” he calls when I’m still a distance away.
I only reply when I stop in front of him. “You’re not allowed inside.”
“Tell them,” he insists. “You’re my daughter. It’s my right to visit you.”
The automatic rifle hanging from the shoulder of the guard manning the guardhouse makes me nervous. Harold must really be pompous not to be bothered by such a threat.
“They won’t listen to me.” For the first time in his life, Harold isn’t getting something he wants. The ugly part of me feels satisfaction at his red-faced frustration. “They’re following Damian’s orders.”
“We need to talk.”
“As I said—”
“I’ll tell Damian about your arms.”
I go rigid. I quickly look toward the guard outside the gate, but he drags on a cigarette and blows smoke into the air, appearing unfazed by our conversation. Luckily, Russell is out of earshot, standing a few paces behind.
I lower my voice. “You have to leave.”
“Come out here, then, if I’m not allowed inside.” His eyes narrow menacingly. “Unless you want everyone to know your secret.”
I’ve been living with my scars alone, and that’s the way I intend to keep it. The world doesn’t need to be a witness to how much I’ve been degraded.
“Let me out,” I say to the guard on the other side.
The guard exchanges a look with Russell.
“I’m not a prisoner,” I say to the man stumping out his cigarette under the heel of his boot. “And please pick up that butt and put it in the trash.”
The man clenches his jaw and grips the rifle tighter.
Russell smirks. “You heard her.”
Eyes locked on mine, the guard bends to retrieve the butt. He doesn’t look away when he chucks it into the trashcan next to the guardhouse.
“Now,” I say sweetly, “open the gate.”
“I have instructions—”
“Our instructions are not to let Mr. Dalton onto the property,” Russell says. “Mrs. Hart is free to leave whenever she wishes.”
The guard takes a wide stance. “I don’t answer to you, Roux. I only answer to Mr. Hart, and to Zane in his absence.”
“Call Zane,” Russell says. When the guard doesn’t move, he takes his smartphone from his pocket. “Do you want me to call him for you?”
With a scoff, the guard enters the guardhouse and types a number into the intercom phone.
A few ringtones later, Zane’s voice booms over the line. After listening to the guard, he tells him to let me out. Harold gives the man a victorious grin as I step through the gates. The minute I’m out, he grabs my arm and pushes me toward his car, but Russell blocks his way.
“She’s not leaving the premises,” he says. “You have five minutes.”
Uttering a string of expletives that shames me to be connected to him, Harold leads me down the road that cuts through an empty plot and exits onto the highway.
“You have to find the evidence,” he tells me when we’re out of earshot. “That blackmailing bastard must be keeping it in the house.”
“I figured.”
He stops at the end of the road. “You know what will happen to me if the evidence falls into the wrong hands, don’t you?”
“You’ll go to jail and get killed.”
“That’s right. What will happen if I’m dead?”
I purse my lips and look toward the distance.
“You’ll never know,” he answers on my behalf.
A physical ache blooms in my chest, twisting itself like thorny ivy around my heart. “You said you’d tell me as soon as Jack’s estate was yours to manage.”
His fingers dig into my muscles. “Now it’s Hart’s to manage, isn’t it?”
“It’s not my fault. If you didn’t steal his discovery and frame him for theft, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Doesn’t matter why or how it happened. Bring me what I want, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. Don’t bring it, and I’ll tell the world the truth.”
“What truth?” There are so many, I’ve lost count.
“That you committed a murder in cold blood.”
I’m backed into a corner again, a feral cat in a cage. I feel like shredding his face and scratching his eyes out of their sockets, but I don’t move a finger. I force myself to detach from the moment, like years of practice taught me. If I can get the evidence, I can blackmail Harold myself, but as always, he’s one step ahead of me, demanding the proof of his crimes in exchange for his silence about mine. Where does that leave me? My only hope is an exchange—the evidence for my baby.
