We held each other tight, kissing like the world was ending and this was our final moment together. It felt that way — like we were on the precipice of the biggest storm, one we weren’t sure we would live through.
“We have to take him down,” she said, definitively. “Him, and Patrick, and whoever else is responsible for your father’s death. We have to get justice, Jordan. We must.”
I nodded, framing her face with my hands. “My brothers will be here tomorrow. I’ve been trying to get a lawyer but…” I sighed. “I think Patrick knows we’re onto him, or someone knows, because every time I get a lawyer willing to talk to us, they pull out the next day or even hours later, saying there’s a conflict of interest.”
She frowned. “He can’t possibly have that much power over that many lawyers. Did you go to people outside of Stratford?”
I nodded. “I even talked to two in Nashville. I don’t know, Sydney… I think we’re in deeper than we realize.”
Her eyebrows tugged together, a defeated sigh leaving her chest as she watched me. “What do we do?”
A breeze rolled in over my mother’s front yard, whipping Sydney’s hair about and stirring up something deep inside me. It felt like the heavens were taking up arms with us, like my father had just dropped down and landed beside me, ready to fight.
“Tomorrow, when Noah and Mikey are here, we assemble the troops. We make a plan,” I said.
My chest caught fire again, puffing out, my heart racing loud and heavy in my ears as Sydney watched me. I saw the same fierce determination reflected in her eyes, and another gust of wind blew through the trees and through my soul, too.
“Then, we go to war.”
Jordan
On Monday evening, after the workday was done and the sun had already set over our small, sleepy town, Patrick Scooter walked us back through his immaculate home and into his office.
It was a dark and royal room, with deep mahogany bookshelves that lined three of the walls, and the only one not lined with books boasted a floor-to-ceiling glass window that I imagined had an impressive view when the sun was shining.
I was glad you couldn’t see anything out of it now.
Patrick was annoyed we were there — that much was clear. His annoyance seemed to grow when Mallory opened the blinds that covered the large window, and cranked a wooden handle to the right of it, which opened the bottom at a small angle to let a cool breeze in.
“There, that’s better,” she said. “It’s always so stuffy in here.”
“It’s cold outside,” her father argued. “And close the blinds, I don’t want anyone being able to spy in on us.”
Mallory rolled her eyes, sitting across from her father in one of the chairs opposite his side of the desk. “No one is watching us, Dad. It’s Stratford, Tennessee, for Christ’s sake, and dinner time on a Monday.”
Patrick grunted, but didn’t argue further, and my heart raced in my ears as I kept my eyes on him and away from the window Mallory had opened.
Noah and Logan were with us, and Logan sat in the chair next to Mallory, while Noah and I stood behind them. We were all quiet, letting Mallory do all the talking for now — as we planned.
If we knew anything right now, it was that we had to stick to the plan.
Patrick Scooter hadn’t changed much in the years since my father had passed. He had an old western feel about him, almost never seen without one of his many cowboy hats donning his head of white hair. His face was long and lean, but hard at the edges, and the wrinkles in his tan skin were deep and severe. Mallory told us that he used to be nothing but kind to her when he spoke, a farce that she began to see through as a teenager.
It didn’t seem to be that way now.
I wondered how she felt — being in the same room with her father for the first time in almost a year. After she told him she was with Logan and she turned down the job he tried to give her first, inviting that it go to Logan. Instead, he’d ripped away the small art gallery in town that he’d bought for her and exiled her from the family. Everything had changed then, as she’d told us, and he stopped putting effort into the charade of pretending he and his daughter had a good relationship.
He hadn’t even wanted anything to do with them when he found out Mallory was pregnant.
What was possibly even worse was that Patrick seemed to control his wife, Mary, who had watched me carefully when we first arrived at the house. She looked worried that I’d mention how I’d seen her at Mom’s earlier in the season, but I’d made a promise to my mom that I’d never say anything, and I’d kept it.
Still, I could see the pain in Mallory’s eyes, and the longing in Mary’s, like she wanted to hug her daughter and kill all the drama that had separated them.
But one look from her husband, and it was clear who was calling the shots.
It made me even more sick when Patrick sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, waiting. Because he hadn’t asked to see his daughter when he found out she was pregnant, but when she fed him the lie we’d come up with that pertained to Scooter Whiskey Distillery business — of course, he found the time.
He was a piece of shit.
And by the end of this night, we’d prove he was a murderer, too.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” Mallory started, all business as she rested her hands on her baby bump.
Her father eyed her stomach with distaste before letting out a long, bored sigh. “Well, you tell me you’ve discovered something that could cost the distillery millions unless it’s handled, and you’ve got my attention.” He pointed at Noah and Logan. “Now, I can understand why you two are here — you both work for me, and I imagine you have knowledge on whatever this thing is that Mallory has found. But you,” he said next, pointing his nubby finger at me. “I’m a little confused as to why you’re here, being that you’ve never worked at the distillery, nor have you ever wanted anything to do with it from what I can gather.”
I didn’t have time to answer before Mallory spoke again. “You’ll understand why soon. Now, should we get down to it?”
Patrick’s mouth pulled to the side, and he watched me a moment longer before he finally waved his hands over the desktop as if to say please, let’s get this over with.
And Mallory must have agreed, because she wasted no time with baiting him, she just reached into her messenger bag and pulled out the charred remains of my father’s laptop that she and Logan had found last year.
My heart immediately accelerated to a gallop, but I held a steady expression.
Mallory sat the laptop gently on the desk between her and her father, and instantly, the color drained from his face.
Noah smiled beside me, and I had to fight to keep that same smirk from showing up on my face, too.
We got you, you bastard.
“So,” Mallory began. “As you know, you and Uncle Mac thought it would be hilarious punishment for me and Logan to clean out the old storage closet last year. And, oh, Dad…” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a little disappointed in you, that you didn’t think about what could be hiding in those old, dusty bins and boxes — especially when you had something this big to hide.”
Patrick’s eyes were wide, and I could see him searching the corners of his mind for a reasonable excuse.
When he finally tore his gaze away from the laptop and looked at Mallory, it was with feigned ignorance. “What is this piece of junk?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Logan said. “It’s my father’s laptop — or, what’s left of it. We found it along with a box of his belongings. Funny,” he said, tonguing his cheek. “You told my mother that the box you gave her was everything you had of his.”
Patrick scoffed. “So, you found this and took it without telling anyone?” He shook his head, reaching for the cord phone on his desk that I wanted to roll my eyes at because it felt like a prop in an old sixties’ movie that he’d wanted in his office just for show. “That’s stealing. I’m calling the cops.”
“You might want to hear us out before you get law enforcement involved,” Mallory said, placing a hand over her dad’s on the receiver. “Unless you want to be in handcuffs.”
“Me in handcuffs?” Patrick repeated, laughing incredulously.
“You murdered our father,” I said.
For the first time since we entered that office, Patrick Scooter looked at me — really looked at me.
“You killed him. And we demand to know why.”
Patrick opened his mouth, ready to deny it by the looks of his features — as if he pitied me — but Noah stopped him.
“We were able to recover the hard drive in the laptop,” he said. “And we broke into that, too.”
“Great,” Patrick said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Even more evidence to slap you with in court. That’s confidential information.”
“Oh, we agree,” I said. “In fact, I’d say the journal my father kept at work was extremely confidential — especially after what we found written inside it.”
Patrick’s face went white, and I took notice of the slight tremble in his hands as he folded them over his stomach again, leaning back in his chair. He was pretending like he knew about the journal, like we had nothing on him, like he was still in control.
But his body was betraying his façade.
“You know, I remember when your father died,” I said. “I was young, but I remember. And even though I didn’t quite understand what a Will was, I knew it must have been a big deal, because this entire town was shaken up that your father didn’t have one.” I paused. “But he did have one. Didn’t he?”
Patrick’s lips were sealed together, and he watched me — emotionless.
“Yeah… see, it seems my father found that Will when he was cleaning out your father’s old office. But,” I said, smiling as I pointed at him. “You already knew that, too, didn’t you? Because my father told you he found it.”
Patrick shifted in his chair, eyeing the phone like he would reach for it at any second to make a magic phone call to save his ass.
But it was too late for that now.
“He also told you that he read it,” I continued. “And that in that Will, your father left half of the company to… well, I don’t need to finish that sentence, do I? Should I let you tell us what was said in that Will?”
Patrick stood abruptly, slamming his fists on the table as he shook with anger, his face red, eyes bulging where he leaned over the desk and pointed at me. “You don’t have shit, little boy — and that’s what you are. You’re nothing but a scared little boy messing around in matters you don’t understand.”
“We have our dad’s journal,” Logan reminded him. “And his last entry says that you asked him to meet you in your father’s old office. After business hours. After the board meeting.” Logan sat calmly looking up at him. “And in case you forgot, that was where he died.”
“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.”
He pressed his palms on top of his desk, leaning over it with a sympathetic expression, like he felt sorry for us.
I surged forward again, but my brothers held me still.
“While I expec
t this sort of behavior from you lot,” he said to me and my brothers before turning to Mallory. “I’m disappointed in you. I raised you to be smarter than this. And regardless of how you feel about me, I expected better.”
To her credit, Mallory didn’t react to his insult. Her gaze was steady while I felt completely unhinged.
He turned back to us, standing tall, voice booming. “I am Patrick fucking Scooter, you dimwits. I own this town and everyone in it. You won’t win. Do you hear me? You will never win.”
He stood even straighter, somehow, before sniffing as if he’d just realized he’d let himself get a little carried away during a board meeting.
“Now,” he said. “If it will make you feel better, I can write you a check for two-hundred-thousand dollars. That’s more than just a little something to help your mom, and we can put this all behind us.”
I roared, and my brothers no longer held me back.
“You heartless sonofabitch!” I yelled first. “How dare you! That’s our father. He was your friend!”
“You have the nerve to offer us money for his death?” Noah barked.
Logan was right behind us, and being that he was the peacekeeper of our family, I was shocked when he lunged at Patrick and I had to hold him back. “He trusted you,” he screamed, his eyes glossing with tears. I knew he was angry they were showing. “He came to you with what he found and you betrayed him, betrayed your own father and his dying wishes!”
Mallory grabbed his arm, and her tender touch seemed to rein him in just enough not to kill her father, but it was still complete and total chaos. We were all flying toward him, screaming, asking him how he could live with himself, how he could do this to us, to his daughter, to someone who used to be his friend. It was like a tornado unleashed in that study until an unfamiliar voice broke through it with a high-pitched scream.
We all fell quiet, turning to find Mary Scooter standing in the office doorway.
“That’s enough,” she said, chest heaving as she looked at her husband and then at the rest of us.
“Mama…” Mallory said, standing.
Old Fashioned Page 25
