I’m still hoping the lawyers can find something useful on the USB drive I filled with files from Julianne’s computer. Anything I lifted from her computer would not technically be admissible evidence, according to them, but it could possibly point them in a direction they could legally pursue. And in a worst-case scenario, Liam says some of the men he hired are loose enough with their morals to be bought, and they can find a way to plant any meaningful evidence we find on the USB in a place we could legally obtain it. The only catch is Julianne’s computer was a complete mess. I downloaded her entire email history and grabbed all the folders on the desktop, but when I tried to look through it myself I realized it would take thousands of hours to sift through the junk.
I’ve been waiting nearly an hour when I get a call from the caretaker who is looking after Roxanne while I’m gone. I step outside the courtroom to answer it.
“Hello?” I say into the phone.
“Please,” says the woman breathlessly. “Roxanne is having some kind of fit. We don’t know what to do.”
“I’m on my way,” I say quickly, hanging up and rushing outside. I fire off a quick text to Liam explaining where I’m going and why before hailing a taxi and getting a ride back to Liam’s house.
It feels like the ride takes forever, and I’ve already called an ambulance by the time I arrive. I hurry inside and immediately sense something is wrong. It’s too quiet. If Roxanne was having some kind of emergency, there would be more noise. On impulse, I grab an umbrella sitting in the rack by the front door.
I round the corner toward the living space and my stomach sinks.
Jake is standing by the patio doors holding the caretaker at knifepoint. Roxanne is sitting in her chair, looking furious.
“I knew you’d come,” says Jake. “I knew if I told you that you’re precious fucking fake family was in danger you’d come.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“You,” he says simply. “Except he already took what I wanted most, didn’t he? That’s too bad. I would’ve settled for taking your virginity before he could have it. I could’ve lived with that. Now…” he says, a sudden fury of emotion rising to his features as he clenches his teeth and tightens his grip on the knife.
The caretaker whimpers, gripping at his forearm and quietly muttering something.
“Now I want more. It wouldn’t be enough to fuck you. I want to ruin his life, like he ruined mine. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill her. And,” he says, squeezing the caretaker harder. “I’m going to kill this bitch if she doesn’t stop whining!”
She bites his arm suddenly, and he gasps, dropping the knife in shock and loosening his grip enough for her to escape.
I rush forward on instinct, thoughts turning primal, knowing it’s hurt or be hurt, kill or be killed. I swing wildly for his head with the umbrella. He ducks the first swing by accident as he bends to get the knife. He has the knife in his hand and is lunging for me before I can back away, but Roxanne rams into him with her chair with so much force that she’s knocked from the chair, but he is sent to the ground too.
I bring the umbrella down on the fist clutching the knife. He screams in pain, dropping the knife again so that I can kick it away, where it skids under the kitchen table. He grabs my ankle and yanks me down. My world turns upside down as I’m pulled forward. I twist, trying to escape, but only manage to land on my cheek instead of the back of my head. The force of landing knocks the wind from me, and I try to crawl away from him.
The caretaker throws a chair at Jake, who was just beginning to stand.
He’s stunned, but backhands her and knocks her to the floor seconds later. Roxanne is slowly trying to get back in her chair, but Jake ignores her, striding toward me with grim purpose.
He lifts me from the ground by my dress like I weigh nothing, face a mask of fury and anger and hatred. He slams me up against the wall and grips my throat, closing his fist around my windpipe, never breaking eye contact.
“I would have fucking loved you. You should have never broken up with me.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. My vision is turning black at the corners. Strange, choked noises come from my throat and my eyes burn. I’m going to die here, helpless, kicking and clawing at him but he doesn’t care. He’s going to--
It all happens at once.
A dark blur passes across my vision and the grip on my throat releases. I collapse, gasping and coughing for air. My eyes are so watery I can barely see. I just hear a struggle and men grunting. I hear the sound of several impacts, like fists colliding with flesh.
I wipe the tears from my eyes and look up to see Liam, who is racing after Jake.
Liam?
He must have left the court as soon as he got my text. I don’t have time to think about the full implications of what that could mean for the trial though, not now. My head is still pounding and my face feels like it’s on fire. I follow them outside, watching as Jake jumps over the fence and Liam turns back to me, taking me in his strong arms and holding me as the strength leaves my legs.
“Thank you,” I cry into his shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he asks, taking me by the shoulders and looking me over, eyebrows drawn as he looks at the mark on my face. His jaw flexes, and in that moment, I think if Jake was still here, Liam would kill him. He would kill him with his bare hands. He looks toward the fence, as if wondering if there’s still time to chase after him.
But there’s no point and he knows it. Wherever he ran off to, he’s long gone.
“When is this going to stop?” I ask.
Liam holds me close. “I’m sorry it has gone this far, sweetheart. I should have fucking killed him when I had a chance.”
It’s only then I realize there’s something wet on Liam’s leg as he holds me. I pull back and see the tear in his pants and the dark stain spreading on his thigh.
“Oh my God,” I say. “He stabbed you?”
Liam looks down. “Yeah, it’s the only reason he got away. When I tackled him we slid under the kitchen table and there was a knife under there. I didn’t see it until he jammed it into me. “Believe it or not, I’ve never been stabbed before,” he says, somehow managing to sound careless about the whole thing. “Hurts like a bitch, actually.”
“You need to sit down,” I say, helping him to sit. “There are a lot of major arteries in the leg. It doesn’t look like you’re bleeding enough for him to have hit anything vital, but it’s better to be safe.”
I try to rip a strip of his pants free to tie off his thigh, but I can’t manage to shred the material. He sees what I’m trying to do and helps me, ripping off the bottom half of his pant leg and letting me tie it around his thigh. It’s only a few minutes later when the ambulances and police I called arrive.
The EMTs take a look at me and tell Liam he’ll need stitches, but the wound isn’t anything serious. I’m flooded with relief, especially when they make it inside and tell us that Roxanne and the caretaker are both okay as well. We have to sit on the back of the ambulance and answer questions from a pair of officers before Liam is taken to the hospital.
One of the officers is stout with a moustache where the other is tall and rail thin. The stout one starts the questioning. “Who did this, ma’am?”
“My ex-boyfriend. Jake. He had a knife and he was going to stab the caretaker.”
“Mhm,” says the man, though he doesn’t write anything down on the pad of paper he’s holding. “And I take it this Jake fellow stabbed your boyfriend here?”
“This is my fiancé,” I say.
“Pardon. He stabbed your fiancé?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Now, you and your fiancé haven’t been going through any difficulty in your relationship lately, have you?”
“What?” I ask. “I don’t see what--”
“Let me tell you, ma’am. You’d be amazed how often these things turn out to be the boyfriend. Or the fiancé. Murders, beatings, abuse, whatever it is, it�
�s amazing. I been doing this a long time and I can count the number of times on one hand it was actually who the woman says. Would you believe that?”
“Listen, fuck face,” starts Liam.
“Sir,” interrupts the taller officer, putting his hand on the holster of his gun. “I’m going to have to ask you to keep quiet while my partner conducts his questioning. You wouldn’t want to say something that might incriminate you any further, would you?”
Liam tenses beside me, and I can tell he’s debating whether or not he should push forward and speak or let these idiots do what they think is their job.
“Liam would never hurt me,” I say.
“Mhm,” says the man with the pad of paper, which still hasn’t been written on.
“I might hurt the two of you jackasses if you keep refusing to listen to my fiancée,” though, adds Liam.
The tall one’s eyebrows shoot up. “Violent tendencies,” he says.
The stout one nods, finally putting the pen to his paper.
“Look, since you dumbasses already decided I did this, can you let us get the fuck out of here? We have more important things to do than to let you two play detective. You can talk to my fucking lawyers if you have any more questions. Thanks.”
The stout man nods, writing down something as he continues to nod and slowly walk away. “Sounds good, chief. I think we got all we need here anyway. Been a pleasure. Y’all take care now.”
17
Liam
The doctors try telling me I can have the trial pushed back while I’m on the mend, but I’m not willing to subject Sophie to one more day with Julianne than I have to. I may still hold some distant hope that Julianne will get her shit together eventually, but right now she’s using my daughter like a fucking bargaining chip, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I wait in the courtroom in one of the back rooms at a long table with my team of lawyers. They are all grim-faced, serious men and women. Aubrey, Sophie, Julianne, and my mom are out there somewhere in the courtroom waiting for the trial to start.
“Okay, Mr. King, let me just outline our strategy for you,” says Peter Goldbloom, my lead lawyer. He’s the best lawyer money can buy, and I had to pay him triple to get him to sideline another case he was working on to take mine on. “We can’t use the mail you took pictures of in court. We would risk being accused of tampering with her mail, which would be more of a detriment than a benefit to us at this juncture. If things look bleak, we may still want to hold on to it, though.
“For now, we’re going to lead with the irresponsibility card. Julianne is clearly not making wise decisions, and we’ve dug up enough public records to back up that claim.”
“What about the USB drive?” I ask. “There has to have been something on it.”
Peter sighs, folding his hands. “We’re still looking into it. I have my entire staff of paralegals digging through it right now, but your ex wife was subscribed to hundreds of newsletters and apparently had an obsession with entering contests. The vast majority of the content is just spam, contest entry confirmations, and files she has thrown together to keep track of which contests she entered.”
“There has to be something else,” I say.
“There very well could be. It’s going to take thousands of man hours to scour it completely, but we’re on it. I assure you. Just give it a couple days.”
“We may not have a couple days,” I say.
“In all likelihood, Mr. King, we won’t need the files. The court does tend to favor the mother in cases like this, but your ex-wife didn’t do herself any favors by refusing custody of your daughter until now. We should be able to build on that to prove she is using your daughter as leverage to blackmail you, which will be the main crux of our case.”
I feel a sinking, cold dread in my chest. “You can’t,” I say, voice sounding distant.
“Pardon?” asks Peter.
“Sophie has to be present for the trial, correct?” I ask.
“Yes, why?” asks Peter.
“Because I can’t let my daughter hear that her mother was only trying to get custody because she’s blackmailing me. Not a chance. We need another strategy.”
Peter gives me an annoyed, level stare. “Mr. King. We aren’t swimming in evidence here. We have to use what we can get our hands on. My team has already prepared our case around this. Changing it would be--”
“Figure it out,” I say shortly. “I’m paying you enough to adapt, aren’t I? I’m not going to crush my daughter’s heart to get her back. There has to be another way.”
Peter sighs and looks slowly to each member of his team in silence. “You had better let us brainstorm, Mr. King. We need to present our opening argument in less than an hour, and this changes everything.”
I join Aubrey in the courtroom. Our place is at a large table in front of the rows of benches. Julianne and Sophie sit at a similar table on the other side of the room. Sophie gives me a small smile, but she looks so much like a hostage it rips at my heart. Fuck. My little girl…
Julianne’s lawyers open with their argument first, leaning heavily on the “facts” Linda McCroy gathered in the time she spent watching us. They reference the “mental instability” demonstrated by Sophie while in my care, the “neglect” shown by Aubrey and I as her caregivers, the “violent tendencies” I showed through my physical altercations with Jake, and even the “pattern of neglect” Sophie has endured as a result of my business.
By the time they’ve finished, my fists are clenched and I’m itching to speak up and call them on the bullshit, but I hold my tongue. I know it would only make things worse. That’s not how this bullshit farce works.
My team comes next, and Peter opens with a statement that begins by establishing how much I’ve provided for Sophie and what a good father I’ve been. He moves on to explain how I’ve raised Sophie by myself, despite the demands of my business, and despite the lack of interest or help from her biological mother. He closes with an attack on Julianne that details her long, confused list of lovers and her financial troubles. As instructed, he doesn’t drive at the point of her disinterest too strongly. I know Sophie isn’t stupid, and I know she can see her mother doesn’t seem to care, but I don’t need a lawyer spelling it out for her, either. We can win without that. We have to.
The first surprise in the trial comes two days later, when Julianne’s team of lawyers presents candid pictures they snapped of Aubrey’s bruised face. The pictures must be recent, because they show the bruises from when Jake attacked her. Her lead lawyer is Kieran Mansfield, a slimy looking man with slicked back hair and a perpetual self-satisfied smirk explains the pictures to the jury.
“Now,” says Kieran. “I will ask the members of the jury to recall Mr. King’s violent past. Recall how Miss McCroy described the way he ruthlessly attacked an innocent bystander on the cruise ship just for trying to step in and defend Mr. Carlyle. Recall her testimony about his aggressive nature--”
“Objection,” says Peter, standing up and slamming his fist down.
“Overruled,” says the judge, a bored looking man who must be at least seventy, if not older.
“Ask yourselves,” says Kieran. “Would you have had any trouble believing a man with Mr. King’s past could have done this to his fiancée? Recall that despite the police report filed by Mr. King and his fiancée, no one ever saw Mr. Carlyle at the King residence on the day of ‘the attack’.”
“Objection,” says Peter. “Roxanne King confirmed seeing Mr. Carlyle.”
“Sustained,” says the judge. “Members of the jury. Please note that the police report was corroborated by Mr. King, his fiancée, and his mother.”
“Apologies,” says Kieran. “Mr. King’s mother did agree with her son, as she has always done in the past. However, the caretaker present that day claimed she saw nothing. She wouldn’t even testify. Perhaps Mr. King has intimidated her to--”
“Objection!” says Peter in an exasperated voice. “Speculation.”
“Su
stained,” says the judge. “Members of the jury, disregard the last statement made by Mr. Mansfield.”
Kieran nods, taking his seat again, but I see the way the jury are looking at me now, and it makes me feel relatively certain they’re starting to make their minds up about me and this case. A hopeless sense of loss starts to creep in on me, like Julianne is really going to win this somehow. But fuck that. There’s no way I’m letting it happen.
When Aubrey and I get home that night, we begin digging through the files on Julianne’s computer ourselves. Instead of manually going through everything file by file, we try searching for particular terms, which initially doesn’t give us any meaningful results.
Nearly two hours later, Aubrey leans her head back and stares at the ceiling. “This feels so hopeless,” she says.
I grip her leg, squeezing slightly. “We’re going to figure it out, sweetheart. We have to. Just remember what’s at stake. We have to keep trying.”
She nods, leaning forward on the bed again and pulling up the search field on the laptop. She frowns slightly and then her eyes widen as she types in, “four under par”.
“What is--” I start to ask, but I stop short when four emails match the search.
“It was Jake’s old email address. He claimed he golfed four under par one time and I guess he thought he needed to immortalize his fib with an email address.”
I lean forward, reading the first email. Holy shit. It’s dated the day I came back home. It’s from Julianne to Jake.
Want to find your old flame? Aubrey is working at 555 Oakside Hills Dr., the gate code is 44829. You may want to act fast, because her boss is a creep and he wants to fuck her.
Aubrey and I share a look of disbelief.
“This is low,” says Aubrey. “Even for her.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching as Aubrey opens the next email. “No kidding.”
The next email is just as short and just as blatantly manipulative. It’s dated a day after Jake showed up and I decked him.
Bad for the Billionaires: A Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle Page 61
