Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(53)

“And it’s a window dressing for everyone to think you’re prosecuting.”

I twist my lips and lower myself to my seat and try to imagine myself in Vaughn and Samantha’s shoes. Scared, motherless, abused. The need to survive, to thrive, and Samantha’s need to protect her sister from that monster at any cost.

Good for you, Samantha. I never met you, but I admire you more now than ever. Protect what’s yours at all costs.

Just like I will.

With a purse of my lips, I toss the copies of the warrants onto the table, lean back in my chair, and meet Stuart’s eyes.

“Something doesn’t make sense here.”

“You feel it too?” he asks as he mimics my posture and sits back in his chair.

“You have an extremely wealthy family. One many know and who have a shit ton of power and influence. One of their prized sons is a fucking pedophile. Maybe they know it, maybe they don’t. But they keep it on the down low if they do, because why risk the scandal that would tarnish their family name, right?” I rise from my seat, my need to work through my thoughts while on my feet as inherent in me as my need for air.

“But then their prized son ends up getting shot.”

“Maybe it’s in his niece’s room in the middle of the night. How would one explain why he was there and why she shot him? Then maybe said niece and sister leave and never come back.” I twist my lips, my eyes veering to the corner of my office in thought. They land on the box Vaughn sent me. It’s still sitting under my credenza, still opened but its contents not fully gone through.

Still reminding me of the hurt I caused her.

“And maybe one niece knows what happened and the other one doesn’t.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” I say with a laugh, but fuck if it doesn’t make perfect sense.

“It is . . . but if you’re a wealthy family trying to hide a secret . . .” His words lead into my thoughts.

“So what are you saying? That there are accusations made of attempted murder against two young teenagers. A robbery gone wrong is what those statements make it sound like. Like they were ungrateful orphans the Dillingers took in. They took care of them, but they were so messed up by the death of their mother that nothing—not even the love and money the Dillingers lavished upon them—could fix them.”

“Are you thinking they pressed charges on principle only?”

“I’m saying money can buy you a shitload of things, including pressing charges and an arrest warrant that never got followed through on.” I turn to look at him. His elbow is on the chair, and he’s running a finger over his jawline in thought as he stares at me. “Think of it this way—you’re a PI who dug this all up quicker than shit, and yet a police force pushed and pressured by an extremely influential family wasn’t able to find two inexperienced teenagers? I find that hard to fucking believe, don’t you, Stu?”

“I think if I were in the Dillingers’ shoes and I knew exactly what was going down with Uncle Creep-Fest, I’d probably turn a blind eye too. I’d level those charges against the sisters to help protect my bullshit family reputation. I’d hope it would be a deterrent for them to come anywhere near the town of Greenwich—let alone Connecticut—because the farther away they are, the less chance they have of coming back as grown adults.”

“And the accusations made by grown adults hold so much more weight than those asserted by grieving kids.” I shake my head. “Shit.”

“You about summed it up with that one word.”

With my fingers fiddling with a pen, I hang my head and stare at my tie as I contemplate the believability of our theory. But I know it’s more than believable. I know that two grown men who have never even talked about this just both came to the same conclusion. That says a whole hell of a lot.

“A safeguard to protect your dirty family secret,” I murmur.

“I find it rather odd that when you search the Greenwich Gazette there isn’t one story about James Dillinger and his run-in with thieves. Not a single mention. His interviews mention his paralysis, how it doesn’t hold him back from creating his brilliant economic theories, but nothing about the tragedy that took his mobility or the person responsible for it. That’s more than odd.”

“Small towns. Big money. Bigger family name. Deal with the paralysis without any fanfare, press the charges so you can keep up the front, but with all that clout, tell the police department not to pursue the assailants. They were just confused kids still grieving the loss of their mother. We’ll forgive them. Blah, blah, blah.”

Is this Vaughn’s secret? Does she know about this, or did Samantha keep yet another thing from her sister? Did Samantha turn to the drugs to ease the pain of the abuse and to deal with the guilt of actually hurting a human being in order to save another?

With my head leaned back and eyes closed, I run through the scenario piece by piece, motive by motive, appreciating the moment Stuart gives me to deal with my thoughts.

I can hear his movements about my office: his shoes on the floor, the snap open of the cupboard, the glasses clinking, and the sound of the bottle being set down on top of the credenza.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I take the whiskey from him, mind still mulling over all of these maybes.

“Are you going to tell her?” he asks and takes a seat again.