The Legacy Series Boxed Set (Legacy, Prophecy, Revelation, and AWOL)

by Ellery Kane

  “Mr. McAllister, please tell the jury why you decided to testify today.”

  He was brave, looking right at the jury, as he spoke. “I wanted you all to know my story. All of it—even the really bad parts. Being in prison for so long, I learned I have to take responsibility for my actions, even when it’s hard or uncomfortable. I’m up here today because of my decisions. If I had never been who I was back then, I wouldn’t be here now. And I have to live with that.”

  Mr. Van Sant nodded solemnly. “Tell us a bit about who you were before you went to prison thirteen years ago.”

  George McAllister shook his head with dismay. “Let me tell you, I was like a tornado. I destroyed everything in my path, everybody I loved. Nobody was safe.” Quin’s fingertips touched mine—as if asking my permission—and I slipped my hand into his, squeezing it tightly.

  “Back then, I was angry, jealous, and violent. I realize now I was just petrified of being abandoned, had to always be in control. I murdered my first wife, Angela, and I deserved to go to prison.”

  “Were you different with Shelly?”

  “Different,” Mr. McAllister repeated. “I would say that word is an understatement. Now I want you to know I wasn’t perfect. Did we argue? Yes, of course. Did I still get jealous sometimes? Yes. But, I never—not even once—physically harmed Shelly. I made that promise to myself, to Shelly, and to my son, and I kept it.”

  “Why did you start speaking out at the anti-EAM rallies?”

  “Well, at first, I was hesitant. I didn’t really want all that attention, but I started to realize that since people knew me, knew my story, they were curious to hear me talk. I had a chance to make a difference.”

  “When did the threats begin?” Mr. Van Sant asked.

  “About a month before this happened. It started out with that note—the one Agent O’Malley read. Then there were a few texts to my cell phone and a couple of emails.”

  “Did you ever fear for your life?”

  “I never thought anything like this would happen. Being in prison, you see a lot. It hardens you. So I can’t really say I was afraid, but Shelly and I were both on edge about it.”

  Mr. Van Sant gave an empathetic nod. “What happened the night Shelly was murdered?”

  “I came home from work right after 5 p.m.—after sitting in traffic for over an hour. I was exhausted, but had to meet Paul at 9 p.m. at a coffee shop downtown, so I was going to take a quick shower. But when I got home, Shelly was standing outside the apartment. She was wearing her bathrobe, talking to this guy from down the hall. It seemed like she was flirting with him—you know, laughing, smiling, touching his arm. So we got into an argument. Like Mr. Darby testified, we were both yelling at each other. I was pretty upset. I thought it would be best if I just left. That was around 6:45 p.m. or so.”

  “What did you do between 6:45 p.m. and 9 p.m.?” Mr. Van Sant asked. I watched Dream Killer lean forward in her seat, appearing eager for his answer.

  George McAllister exhaled. “I drove around,” he said. “I parked for a little while by the port and watched some of the cargo ships unload.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No,” he conceded. “It was raining pretty hard. The streets were deserted.”

  “Why were you meeting Paul Grimley?”

  “I know this sounds strange, but I’m not exactly sure. He approached me a few weeks prior after one of the rallies. He told me that he had some information for me about the company he worked for. He was supposed to tell me more that night.”

  “What company did Mr. Grimley tell you that he worked for?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me, but now I know he worked for Zenigenic.” With a slight turn of my head, I confirmed Xander hadn’t left the courtroom.

  “What happened when you met with Mr. Grimley?”

  “For starters, he was acting weird. Real nervous, jittery. He told me that he was being followed. At first, I thought he was just paranoid, but with the threats I had received, I started thinking I should take him seriously. He gave me a piece of paper with the word Macbeth written on it, and told me that I could find evidence with it. Then he left. I guess, at that moment, I thought he was crazy.”

  “What happened then?”

  George McAllister looked at Quin. “This is the hard part,” he admitted. “I left the coffee shop. My car was parked across the street. I stepped out to cross, and a bicycle almost hit me. I remember thinking that was strange—a person riding a bike—since it was raining so hard. That’s the last thing I remember until I came to in my apartment.” I watched the jurors’ faces, as he spoke. A young woman in the front row looked skeptical, but the others gave nothing away.

  Mr. Van Sant continued. “What did you see when you came to?”

  “I saw blood everywhere. That was the first thing. I was so confused. When I started to realize where I was, I freaked. That’s when I saw Shelly.” His face contorted in horror, as if he was living it all again. “She was … I knew she was dead.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I ran over to her, tried to shake her, wake her up, do something. I heard the police sirens outside, and it sort of all hit me at once. I just knew—I was framed. I hid the paper Paul gave me and waited.”

  “Have you ever used or possessed emotion-altering medications?”

  Quin’s father shook his head. “Not since Crim-X.”

  “Do you know how the vial of Onyx came to be in your possession?”

  “No.” His voice was adamant.

  “One last question, Mr. McAllister. Did you murder Shelly or have anything to do with her death?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, so I’ll be the last to say I’m an innocent man, but I did not do this.”

  Sitting there, feeling Quin hold onto my hand for dear life, I had to admit, it was hard not to believe him.

  EIGHTY - EIGHT

  A HIGH PRICE TO PAY

  THIS WAS DREAM KILLER’S MOMENT. With a flip of her long brown hair, she reveled in it.

  “Mr. McAllister.” She made the mere sound of his name seem suspicious. “Have you ever lied before?”

  “Of course.”

  “What kinds of things have you lied about?” she asked.

  “Well, I was a criminal … so all kinds.”

  “Did you ever lie about your memory?” Immediately, I thought of my mother. I glanced at Quin, but he was staring straight ahead. He squeezed my hand.

  “I’m not sure I understand the question,” George McAllister answered.

  “Why don’t I show you?” She handed him a piece of paper. “Take a look at that, Mr. McAllister. Do you recognize it?”

  He nodded. “Yes. It’s a psychological evaluation of me done right after I killed Angela.”

  “Would you read the highlighted portion for the jury?”

  I saw tears in George McAllister’s eyes. For the first time, he seemed afraid as he read aloud from the evaluation.

  “I have these rages, where everything goes to black. I’m sure Angie said something to push my buttons—she was real good at that. She’d wind me up like a top, and I’d just keep going and going. But honestly, Doc, I just don’t remember.”

  Dream Killer could hardly contain herself. She spit out her question. “Are those your words?”

  “They are.”

  “Was that a lie, Mr. McAllister?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I had trouble taking—”

  She promptly silenced him. “A yes or no is sufficient.” She took up her usual position alongside the jury box. “If you lied before about not being able to remember killing your wife, how do we know you aren’t lying to us today? That everything you’ve told us hasn’t been another lie?”

  He met her stare. “I suppose you don’t know. That’s the price I have to pay for lying.”

  “Quite a high price to pay, Mr. McAllister. Now, you also told us you’re different now. Did you yell at your first wife, Angela?”
<
br />   “Yes, I did.”

  “And you yelled at Shelly too?” Dream Killer accelerated the pace of her questions.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “You said you got jealous with Angela, correct?”

  “Very,” he admitted.

  “And you also mentioned jealousy was an issue with Shelly, right?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t—”

  “Did you ever call Angela any names when you were arguing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Shelly? Did you call her names as well?”

  I dreaded the answer. “Sometimes.”

  “Isn’t that verbal abuse, Mr. McAllister?”

  “I—I guess so.”

  “You guess so? Is it or is it not verbal abuse to call your wife names?”

  “It is.”

  “So you were a jealous man who verbally abused both Angela and Shelly. Are you really that different?”

  He froze for a moment. “Objection,” Mr. Van Sant bellowed, just in time. “Asked and answered.”

  Before Judge Blacksher could respond, Dream Killer spoke again. “I rescind the question, Your Honor.” Turning back to Mr. McAllister, she continued. “Let’s talk about those threats. You said you received several texts and emails, correct?”

  “Yes, a few of each.”

  “Where are they Mr. McAllister? Can you show them to us?” She held out her empty hands.

  “I deleted them.”

  “I see. And did you ever tell anyone, like the police, about those threats?”

  “No, except for the one I gave Agent O’Malley.”

  “So you expect us to believe you received threats, but you didn’t go to the police?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what happened.”

  “And when did you start abusing Onyx, Mr. McAllister?”

  His eyes widened at her presumptuous tone. “I’ve never used Onyx … or any other—”

  “Right,” she interrupted. “It just happened to be in your pocket.” She turned a dubious eye to the jury, as she spoke. “Did you know Shelly was pregnant?”

  A faint smile passed across his face before it was swallowed by grief. “I did. She told me right after she took the test.”

  “How did you feel about the pregnancy?”

  “I was surprised, of course. It wasn’t planned.”

  Impatient, Dream Killer eyed him, ready to pounce. “Did you have any doubts as to the paternity of the child?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re saying you were jealous, thinking Shelly might be cheating on you, but you never entertained the thought the baby might belong to another man?”

  He slapped the podium with the palm of his hand. “No!” His voice came out forcefully, like a gust of wind. I tensed in my seat, watching the soldier stationed next to him. The young man’s severe expression never changed. He stared straight ahead but tightened his grip on his gun, as if readying for a strike.

  Then he caught himself, softening his tone. “I didn’t.” It was too late—his outburst made its impact. Several of the jurors were wide-eyed.

  “Are you always this short-tempered, George?” Ms. Dillard smirked. “Or is it because I’m a woman?”

  He didn’t have a chance to reply. Dream Killer didn’t want an answer. “Strike the question, Your Honor. Nothing further.”

  Calmly, Mr. Van Sant approached him. “I want to clarify something you said that the prosecutor seems to have misunderstood. You told us you were jealous, sometimes thinking Shelly was flirting, but did you ever believe she was unfaithful to you?”

  Regaining his composure, he answered. “No, I didn’t. That was the old me. I was always paranoid Angela was having an affair. Distorted thinking, that’s what my therapist at Dellencourt called it. I still got jealous though. I think everyone does from time to time, but I never accused Shelly of cheating on me.”

  “I was remiss in not asking you earlier,” Mr. Van Sant began. “How did you feel about Shelly?” Somehow, I doubted he had forgotten. More likely, he saved the question in his back pocket just in case of an emergency.

  A smile warmed George McAllister’s face. “Shelly was my second chance at love, my opportunity to do it right. I wasn’t perfect, and neither was she. But I loved her.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. McAllister. I have no further questions.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY - NINE

  FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD

  GEORGE MCALLISTER RETURNED to his seat, looking rumpled and exhausted. “Let’s take a brief recess,” Judge Blacksher instructed.

  “Dad,” Quin called. His father turned toward us, his smile sheepish, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “You did fine,” Quin mouthed back to him—but to me, he whispered, “That was hard.”

  I nodded. “Your dad handled it pretty well though, better than I expected. He was believable.”

  “You think so?” Quin sounded hopeful.

  “I do.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I just wish you would’ve told me about all of that … the threats.”

  “I should’ve told you that my dad was doing those speeches,” he agreed. “But I didn’t know about the threats. My dad didn’t tell me. He said he didn’t want me to worry.”

  “Oh.” I tried to conceal a sudden resurgence of doubt, but I couldn’t fool Quin. He knew all my tricks.

  “After everything your mom told you about Zenigenic, do you really believe they’re not capable of something like this?”

  I thought of my father’s article. I know they are. I paused, choosing my words carefully. “It’s just that my mom also told me the simplest explanation is usually the truth.”

  Quin’s jaw hardened. “You mean my dad killing Shelly, right? That’s the simplest explanation.”

  Here we go again. “I’m not saying that’s what I believe. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “Well, you let me know when you do that.” Quin got up and walked away without waiting for my reply.

  “Lex,” Elana called from behind me. “What’s going on with you and…” Suspending her thought in mid-sentence, she turned a calculated eye toward Emma. She joined me in the seat next to mine. “Quin,” she finished quietly.

  “I don’t know.” I looked at her pitifully. “We’re still broken up—I think—but it’s complicated.”

  Elana looked puzzled. “Is this about her?” She jerked her head in Emma’s direction, but she was gone. Probably to find Quin, I thought.

  I shook my head. “It’s not about Emma. And I still love Quin. It’s about me. I guess, maybe, I’m scared.”

  Elana hugged me. “Now that, I totally understand.” We sat in silence until Quin reappeared, Emma tagging along behind him. My eyes met hers in a silent standoff. Judge Blacksher began speaking, sending a reluctant Emma back to her row. I won.

  Quin leaned toward me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “When you tell me you don’t believe my dad, it reminds me that you don’t trust me.”

  Before I could respond, Judge Blacksher announced, “I understand this is your final witness, Mr. Van Sant.”

  Mr. Van Sant nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Mr. Xander Steele.” Now that was bold.

  From the back of the courtroom, Xander made his way forward. A ripple of hushed murmurs chased him. Unlike his stuttering press conference, he seemed confident—shoulders back, head up, eyes intent on his destination—but not cocky, certainly not crazed. Dosing, I thought to myself, accurate dosing. I marveled at the black-stoned ring still looming large on his finger. He marched toward the witness stand, one well-tailored step after another.

  At the defense table, Mr. Van Sant and Edison exchanged a nod. From his briefcase, Edison withdrew a small bottle, marked with a Z—the same bottle Elana discovered in the Paramount. He placed it in front of him with intention, right in Xander’s line of sight. Mr. Van Sant adjusted his tie and rose to his feet, eagle-eyed. There was no mistaking it. He was ready for war.

  “Tell us, Mr. Steel
e, how long have you been the CEO at Zenigenic?”

  “Since June of this year. I believe that’s about four months.” His voice was self-assured, but his eyes meandered toward the bottle.

  “And when did you come to believe George McAllister posed a threat to Zenigenic’s long-term success?”

  “Excuse me?” Xander raised his heavy eyebrows. “I don’t see George McAllister as a threat to my company. Never have, never will.”

  Mr. Van Sant sneered at Xander. The clash of egos had begun. “Are you aware of the testimony provided under oath by your employee, Dr. Robert McGovern?” Xander shrugged apathetically. “Let me refresh your memory. He testified the Public Perception Committee was instructed by his supervisor to counter the negative publicity generated by my client’s speaking events. Do you recall that?”

  “I remember hearing something about it. Dr. McGovern and his supervisor have both been terminated from Zenigenic.”

  “Of course they have,” Mr. Van Sant replied. “Did you ever personally advise anyone at Zenigenic to diffuse Mr. McAllister’s impact?”

  “Never.” His eyes were laser focused on Mr. Van Sant. This Xander was in complete control.

  “But your email address was on Dr. McGovern’s distribution list, was it not?”

  “I’m sure it was. It’s not uncommon for me to be included on critical emails at Zenigenic. I am the CEO after all.” One of the male jurors in the front row rolled his eyes.

  “Thank you for reminding me of that.” Mr. Van Sant’s voice was coy. “As the CEO, you must have been aware of the directives of the Public Perceptions Committee. In fact, the CEO would provide those directives. Am I right?”

  “Since I was appointed CEO at Zenigenic—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Steele, but it is a yes-or-no question.”

  Xander furrowed his brow in annoyance. “Then, no, you are incorrect. I wasn’t aware of those particular directives regarding George McAllister. In fact, I never heard of him prior to this incident.”

  “Has Zenigenic manufactured Emovere since the ban was imposed?”

  “No.”

  “What about Euphoractamine?”