It’s one reason the McCords took the deal. They knew prosecuting that kind of case would go nowhere, especially against my family. You can’t call someone’s mother a drug-addled slut and get away with it.
Grier’s face tightens. “If I had known that you were engaged in disreputable activity to this extent, I wouldn’t have suggested to your father that we settle this matter in a monetary fashion. I would’ve suggested military school.”
“Oh, was that your idea? Because Dad always throws that threat around whenever he doesn’t like what we’re doing. I guess I can thank you for that,” I say sarcastically.
“Reed,” my father chides from his place near the bookshelves. It’s the first thing he’s said since we walked in here, but I’ve been watching his expression and it just keeps getting bleaker.
Grier glares at me. “We’re on the same team here. Don’t fight me, boy.”
“Don’t call me boy.” I glare back, dropping my arms to my knees.
“Why? Are you going to break my jaw, too?”
His eyes fall to the hands I’ve got curled into fists in my lap.
“What’s your point here?” I mutter.
“My point is—”
A soft ringing cuts him off.
“Hold that thought.” Grier reaches for the sleek cell phone on the desk and checks the screen. Then he frowns. “I need to take this. Excuse me.”
Dad and I exchange a wary look as the lawyer steps out into the hall. Since he closes the door behind him, neither of us is able to hear what he’s saying.
“These statements are bad,” I say flatly.
Dad gives a bleak nod. “Yes. They are.”
“They make me look like a psycho.” A powerless sensation squeezes my throat. “This is freaking bullshit. So what if I like to fight? There’re guys out there who fight for a living. Boxing, MMA, wrestling—you don’t see anybody accusing them of being bloodthirsty maniacs.”
“I know.” Dad’s voice is oddly gentle. “But it’s not just the fighting, Reed. You’ve got a temper. You—” He stops when the door swings open and Grier appears.
“I just got off the phone with the ADA,” Grier says in a tone I can’t decipher. Confused, maybe? “The lab results from Brooke’s autopsy came back this morning.”
Dad and I both straighten our shoulders. “The DNA test on the baby?” I ask slowly.
Grier nods.
I take a breath. “Who’s the father?”
And suddenly I’m…afraid. I know there’s zero chance of me being that kid’s father, but what if some corrupt lab tech rigged the results? What if Grier opens his mouth and announces—
“You are.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s not talking to me.
He’s talking to my dad.
23
Reed
Silence crashes over the study. My father is gaping at the lawyer. I’m gaping at my father.
“What do you mean, it’s mine?” Dad’s tortured eyes are fixed on Grier. “That’s not possible. I had a…”
Vasectomy, I finish silently. When Brooke announced her pregnancy, Dad was certain the baby couldn’t be his, because he’d gotten snipped after Mom had the twins. And I was certain it couldn’t be mine, because I hadn’t slept with Brooke in more than half a year.
Looks like only one of us was right.
“The test confirmed it,” Grier answers. “You were the father, Callum.”
Dad swallows hard. His eyes glaze over a bit.
“Dad?” I say tentatively.
He stares at the ceiling as if it’s too painful for him to look at me. A muscle in the back of his jaw flexes, and then he shudders out an unsteady breath. “I thought she was lying to me. She didn’t know I’d had the vasectomy, and I thought…” Another breath. “I thought, it had to be someone else’s.”
Yeah. He decided it was mine. But I can’t blame him for reaching that conclusion. He’d known about me and Brooke, so of course the thought had entered his mind. I guess the other thought—that it could actually be his—never did.
Sympathy ripples through me. Dad might’ve hated Brooke, but he would’ve been a good father to her kid. The loss has to be killing him.
He inhales heavily before finally looking my way. “I…ah, do you need me here or can you handle the rest of the meeting on your own?”
“I can handle it,” I answer gruffly, because it’s obvious he can’t handle a damn thing at the moment.
Dad nods. “All right. Shout if you need me.”
His legs don’t appear to be steady as he leaves the room. There’s a beat of silence, and then Grier speaks up.
“Are you ready to continue?”
I nod weakly.
“All right. Let’s talk about Ella O’Halloran.” He shuffles through the endless fucking pile of papers and pulls out another set. “Ella O’Halloran, formerly known as Ella Harper, is a seventeen-year-old runaway who was found masquerading as a thirty-five-year-old and stripping in Tennessee just three months ago.”
Has it only been three months? I feel like Ella’s been a part of my life forever. Anger begins to pound at my temples. “Don’t talk about her.”