“It’s not my story. I met his son. A long time ago.”
His son?
I’ve done little digging into Taylor's private life. I know he had a son, but he’s grown up and nothing has pointed to him to date. Jesus, I hope this doesn’t lead to some sex trafficking ring. I don’t have the stomach for that.
“Okay,” I reply softly, letting him talk as I place my hand on his arm.
“Let’s just say his father took his innocence.”
My mouth falls open.
“He told you that?” I gasp.
That conversation would require a closeness and trust. Years of friendship or a common pain. It’s not schoolroom locker conversation. Or a chat over a beer.
I don’t know when they met or how he knows Taylor’s son, but it’s quite a statement to make.
“Were you...”
“Brook.” His dark eyes snap to mine. “I’m sharing this with you because I want you to know your story has truth. Leo Taylor is not a good man. You should keep investigating.”
I nod.
The emotion flowing from him is so intense, it’s overwhelming.
“Do not let anyone use scare tactics to stop you.” Suddenly he stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “If...if anyone threatens you, I want you to let me know.”
“You were close to this kid.”
When his eyes meet mine again, he nods. “Yes. He lost his mother and was abused for many years. He deserves justice.”
Then he walks out, and I sit staring into the silent room and can’t help feeling there is significantly more to this.
As any investigative reporter would.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TRAVIS
––––––––
Fuck. I couldn’t even plant the seed in Brook’s mind without my fury rising up like the devil and being on display.
I know she noticed.
I walk a fine line every day, keeping my hatred locked away so I can live a normal life. One where I pretend I don’t wake at night screaming because I’m back in my family home as a little boy, hearing the click.
The click, which means pain and fear.
Which means the man I should’ve been able to trust was instead the demon in my story. The one who taught me no one was to be trusted, and that lying is necessary to survive.
“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll tell the police you killed your mother,” he said the first time.
It’s laughable now.
She died of a heart attack.
But as a five-year-old, I didn’t have the knowledge or means to argue with my father. Not when he stood taller and stronger before me, stroking himself while gazing over my body with bloodshot eyes. Evil ghosting around him while the smell of bourbon filled my room.
