“You think a journal is going to hold up in a court of law?” Patrick asked, laughing. “You could have written it. You could have faked it to frame me. There is no Will, and your little discovery is flaccid, at best. You have nothing.”
“How was the fire contained to only that room?” Noah fired back at him. “Started by a cigarette that everyone in this town knows my father never smoked? And even if it was a cigarette, how was he unable to get out of the room once the fire started?”
Patrick straightened, wiping his hands over his chest as if he’d just spotted some dirt there before he sat back down calmly. “Your family has been told this time and time again, Noah. The fire department thinks he might have dozed off after a long day at work.”
“And he didn’t wake up when the room was on fire?” I shot.
“Look, we all have questions about that day, okay?” Patrick said. “But this… CSI game you’re playing at here is silly, and childish, and frankly, a waste of my time. I think we’re done here.”
“You are so predictable, father,” Mallory said, and it wasn’t a biting or sarcastic remark. It was quiet, sad, like she truly was disappointed that he was still the same man who had hurt her, too.
She shook her head before she stood, and then she left the room abruptly.
Patrick looked between me and my brothers, as if to ask what we were still doing there. But then, Mallory came back in and shut the door behind her again.
This time, she wasn’t alone.
Sydney stood beside her, tall as she could, with her eyes set in a narrow line focused on Patrick Scooter.
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, what now?” He looked at Sydney, thrusting an open palm toward her. “What could you possibly have to add to this? Oh, wait, let me guess.” He snapped his fingers. “You found something buried in your ex-husband’s files! An old diary, right? Or a Magic 8-Ball!”
He was toying with us, and Noah surged forward, but I planted my hand flat in the middle of his chest to stop him.
“Calm down,” I told him under my breath, and Patrick chuckled at the outburst, amused.
“On the night of John Becker’s death, I heard my husband talking on the phone in our kitchen. He was whispering about something, and for the longest time, I had blocked out that memory, that entire night, because…” Sydney swallowed. “Because that was the first night my husband struck me, and I wanted to forget it ever happened.”
Patrick looked bored as he listened to her, and I clenched my jaw, wondering how someone could ever become so callous.
“But, the fog has cleared since our divorce, sir. And I know what I heard that night. I know he was in our kitchen, talking on the phone in hushed whispers. Talking on the phone with you,” she clarified. “And I heard him saying that you needed to trust him, that you needed to keep your mouth shut, and that he didn’t need to remind you that it wouldn’t be easy to cover up a homicide.”
Silence fell over that little study, and for a moment, as I watched Patrick, I thought that maybe we’d struck a chord.
But then, he laughed.
“Seriously?” he asked, pointing a thumb at her as he looked around the room, like it was some sort of prank being pulled on him. “This is the so-called evidence you have that you think will win the case?”
That was it.
I couldn’t remain calm any longer — not with that snide son-of-a-bitch making jokes like my father’s death was funny.
I slammed my fist on his desk, then reached forward, gripping him by the neck of his button-up and yanking him out of his chair. His face was inches from mine when I roared, “ADMIT IT, YOU BASTARD. YOU MURDERED OUR FATHER.”
Patrick laughed, and I reared back to punch him square in the jaw before Logan and Noah yanked me back, freeing Patrick from my grasp as they contained me.
He was still laughing as my brothers tried to calm me, but then he dusted off his shirt where I’d held him, and smiled at us. “You know what? You’re right.”
Everyone went still.
Everything went silent.
“I did kill your father. Is that what you want to hear?” He shook his head, looking me and both of my brothers in the eye — boldly, unapologetically. “I killed John Becker. There. There’s the answer you’ve been looking for. Does it make you feel any better? Because no matter what you do, no matter what proof you think you have, it doesn’t matter,” he said, exasperated. “The case is ten years old. It’s already been solved. It’s closed. It’s over. The journal you found, this…” He gestured toward Sydney. “Scorned ex-wife of our Chief of Police testifying? It’s nothing. It won’t hold. I have lawyers, and police officers, and board members and firefighters who were there that night, and all signed witness accounts and official reports of what happened. Randy did help me cover it up,” he confessed, more like a brag. “And he was damn good at it, too.”