Page 117 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

And it changed everything.

She grins, then reaches to the underside of the top and begins shifting the pieces of wood around until a click sounds. Her eyes dart to the side, and she pulls out a leather-bound journal, holding it up to me.

My hand trembles as I take it from her.

She slides out and climbs to her feet, wiping off the butt of her jeans before she settles on the arm of the chair next to me. “What is it?”

I set it on the desk and flip open the leather cover. The first page sucks the air right from my lungs, and Lyla’s constant reminders to breathe flood my head.

Lyla leans over to read it. “It’s dated a month before he died.”

Dear Silas,

At least, I hope this is Silas, as you are the only one who ever saw me use my secret hiding spot.

I pray that upon my death, you’ll return to this house you ran from so many years ago, find this, and understand why I did what I did.

Lyla’s brow furrows. “What the hell is he talking about?”

I shake my head as I flip to the next page. “I don’t know.”

Your Uncle Marty was always a little off. Even as a child, he was a bit sadistic, torturing small animals, kicking the dog, biting and hitting other children in school. Our parents, God bless them, did everything they could to try to dispel those tendencies. They sent him to special schools, counseling. They warned me to always watch out for him, to try to keep him in line as much as I could.

Being the psychopath that he is, he was able to convince everyone that he had changed. But I always saw what he attempted to hide just under the polished surface. I saw that he had no conscience. I saw that he actually enjoyed hurting people.

But my parents had tasked me with watching out for my little brother, so I did it, much to the detriment of many innocent people—including you.

Please believe me when I say I didn’t know what he was doing to you, at least not in the beginning. Your mother was insanely protective of you, and as long as she was in this house, I believed he never would’ve been able to touch you without her going straight to the authorities. Though we had people on the force who could have intervened on his behalf, he couldn’t risk that potential exposure.

Bile climbs up my throat, and Lyla’s hand tightens on my wrist. She glances at me, her eyes wide. “Is he saying what I think he is?”

I nod, unable to form any words right now while reading what appears to be Father’s confession that Marty killed my mother.

I don’t have proof that he did it. Just a gut instinct. As far as I can tell, that was when the worst of the abuse started, once she was gone. But I didn’t know, didn’t truly know until that day when you were seven, when I saw the burn mark on you.

The tears start to well in my eyes, but I swipe them away to clear my vision so I can keep reading. As painful as this is to read, it might help resolve so many of the questions I’ve always had about what went on within these walls.

Lyla flips the page, giving me a moment to try to collect myself.

I should have intervened then. A good father would have. But I was too deep in the bottle, too wrapped up in running the company and doing what was best for Bolton Steel. Too worried about the money and the legacy and the promise I made to my parents. I chose all that over you. And for that, I will likely burn in the fires of Hell and deserve an eternity there.

I would never ask you to forgive me for that. That isn’t something that can be forgiven. All I can offer you is what I hope will assist you in making sure Marty pays for what he’s done.

Even now, he threatens me, after everything I’ve done for him. My brother won’t stop, and you are the strongest person I know. You can end this.

I love you, son. And I’m sorry.

My hand trembles so badly that I almost tear the page trying to turn it.

A series of dates and names followed by detailed descriptions of incidents fill the paper, starting as far back as their teens.

“Oh, my God.” Lyla’s hand flies to her mouth. “Is this what I think it is?”

I flip through page after page of Father’s elegant scrawl. It goes on and on, filling almost the entire journal.Decadesof information.

“He documented everything.” I glance up at her. “It isn’t the type of evidence Ronald would’ve had—signed contracts, NDAs, bank statements of money transfers—but it’s my father’s own handwritten accounts of everything he knew about. It’ssomething,something we can take to the board.”

Father might’ve been a spineless, self-destructive bastard during his time on this planet, but he left us what might be the only thing that can take that monster who is his brother down.

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