Chapter 6

"So, what's your plan?"

"Not yet," I said. "But after eight years inside, I've had a lot of time to think things through."

"What's up?"

"That money Richard handled back then...it wasn't just some simple accounting issue."

Paul sat up straight.

"What are you getting at?"

"I was the finance director. I knew those numbers inside out. On the surface, it looked like a sketchy loan arrangement, but in reality..."

I paused.

"It was money laundering."

"Money laundering?" Paul's voice dropped, and his face went pale.

"Yeah. Back then, I didn't think much of it. I figured it was just some creative bookkeeping. But after I got locked up, I kept turning it over in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more it didn't add up.

"The numbers, the channels, those shell companies...Richard was laundering money.

"And me? I was just the firewall.

"If anything went south, I'd be the first and only fall guy.

"Once the case was closed and I was locked up, the trail went cold, and he walked away clean, still playing Mr. Bennett."

Paul's forks froze in midair.

"Edward...are you sure?"

"Eight years is more than enough time to run those numbers through my head a million times."

I picked up my teacup and took a sip.

"But just having it in my head isn't enough. I need proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"The original documents, bank records, and the registration info for those shell companies. If Richard didn't destroy them, they should still be in Bluewave Holdings' archives."

"Are you crazy? You're not seriously thinking about stealing from Bluewave, are you?"

"Don't need to steal anything."

I just grinned.

"I used to be the finance director. Some things don't stay with the company. They stay with the people who ran it."

Paul's expression shifted.

It turned into that "this guy actually learned something in prison" kind of expression.

"But that's not urgent," I said, setting down my coffee. "First, I need to get my feet on the ground."

"What do you need?"

"A place to stay. A job."

"Place to stay is easy. I've got an empty office at my company. You can crash there for a few days. As for work..." he paused, thinking. "Is your accounting license still valid?"

"It's expired, but I can just retake the test. I still know my stuff."

"Come help out at my place. We could always use another bookkeeper. The pay's not great."

"How much?"

"2,500 dollars."

Eight years ago, I was pulling in a million a year.

Now? 2,500 bucks. What a drop.

I nodded. "Alright."

Nothing to be ashamed of.

Right now, I don't need pride. I need a foothold.

After dinner, Paul took me to his small office.

It was up on the sixth floor of an old office building, the kind that's been converted from a three-bedroom place.

The place was empty. Everyone had already clocked out for the day.

In the corner, there was a tiny room with a fold-out bed.

"We used it for overtime. There's a blanket and pillow, so you can crash here for now," Paul said.

"That'll do," I replied.

Paul clapped me on the shoulder.

"Edward, take it easy. You survived eight years. What's a few more days?"

"I know."

He left.

I lay down on the fold-out bed.

The springs jabbed into my back.

But it was a million times better than the prison bunk.

I stared up at the ceiling.

My head was spinning with everything that happened today.

Lily was sprawled on the floor.

That boy was sitting on top of her.

Sarah rushed over, but her arms weren't for me.

Richard's face when he walked in. First that flash of panic, then instantly switching to Mr. Friendly.

That fake friendliness turned my stomach.

Shows he'd already planned out exactly how to play it if I ever walked in on him.

To him, this was nothing.

He figured he could just toss me some cash. Maybe even actually pay up a bit, and I'd disappear.

Same as before, have me take the rap, do his time, and walk away clean.

To him, I'm just a tool, someone you pay to make your problems vanish.

With that thought, I pulled the folded family photo out of my pocket.

I unfolded it.

My eyes lingered on Lily's face.

Just two years old back then.

Now she's ten.

Eight years of memories, all written by Richard.

Dad.

She must've been calling him "Dad" for years now.

I gripped the photo tight.

I didn't cry.

Men who walk out of prison don't cry.

But why?

Eight years rotting in a cell, and he gets to walk free, take everything I had?

I took the bullet for him, and he parades my wife around like some prize?

Why does my own daughter call him "Dad" instead of me?

Why?

I want Richard to look me in the eye and answer that.

On his knees.

I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, it starts.

Step one, head to my mom's place and retrieve the agreement.

Step two, confirm those files are still around.

Step three—

Make sure Richard understands: guys who walk out of prison, every move is calculated.

My phone buzzed next to my pillow.

A text message.

Unknown number.

I checked it.

"Edward, I admit I was wrong earlier. Let's meet up tomorrow and sort out the money, face to face. You pick the place." —Richard Bennett

I stared at the screen for ten seconds.

A smirk tugged at my lips.

Getting nervous already?

I'd only thrown him one punch. I hadn't even begun.

And he was already panicking.

I didn't reply.

I locked my phone and rolled over.

Tomorrow's another day.

Let him stew tonight.