Page 107 of Silent Vendetta (Vendetta Duet)

“My father would never hurt anyone.” I began to squeeze.

Stanley’s eyes bulged, veins popping as he tried to wrench my grip away. I gritted my teeth so hard, that the pressure stretched all the way to the back of my jaw as I watched Stanley’s face turn red and start to grow purple. All while he continued to thrash, his arms frantically flailing about.

In a minute, this would all be over.

I finally found my father’s killer.

I stared into his gaze, squeezing his windpipe so hard, that my hands ached.

Suddenly, a searing pain shot through my temple as something hard collided with it, sending stars dancing in my vision. Not enough force to knock me off of Stanley, but enough to dislodge my grip, and as blood trickled down my temple, I spotted the metal door stopper in his hand.

Stanley coughed, wheezing as he found his voice. “If your father had nothing to do with my son’s death, then how do you explain the five million dollars?”

CHAPTER48

Hunter

Istaggered back, the weight of his accusations pressing against my certainty. Desperation poisoned my breath as I grabbed his gun and pointed it at his face.

“Start talking,” I demanded, my voice trembling with anger. “Tell me everything. Now.”

The irony of the situation. The dude was about to blow his own brains out, but now I was going to do him a favor and do it for him.

But if the guy had any heart left in him, he could at least answer my fucking questions before he died.

“They had no business being in our neighborhood,” Stanley started. “Shortcut to the interstate or not, rich people like him shouldn’t cut through the street to begin with. They never should’ve been there.”

“It must’ve been one of my dad’s business associates or something.” It had to be someone else from my dad’s company…but not my father.

“When they arrested Payne, I told the police it wasn’t him. They wouldn’t listen, though. No one would, so I started looking for the phone numbers or addresses of the guys in that car. Started with professional directories first, but eventually, I found the contact for the passenger through a charity event he’d hosted.

“He told me he had friends in the police department and assured me that he would get Payne off. He told me he wanted to go to the police himself to own up to his part in that awful night—that your dad had made him pull my boy into that alley. And that after, your father was stopping him from doing the right thing.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I wanted to believe—needed to believe him. Especially after he found out my wife had cancer and he cut me a check for five million dollars to help pay for a lifetime of treatment. He swore he’d convince your father to turn himself in. His only request in exchange for that money was my signature on an NDA, prohibiting me from talking to reporters about it—said your dad would dig his heels in more if his name went public, so I agreed. I didn’t care about reporters. I cared that your father turned himself in.

“But as time passed, it became clear your father was never going to accept responsibility for what he had done. I showed up at his house once to confront him, but some security guard held me back, and your father refused to see me.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “If my father had struck someone with his vehicle, he would’ve turned himself in.”

“When Payne was formally charged for my son’s murder, police still wouldn’t listen to me. Going to reporters? The guy who claimed he was trying to do the right thing threatened to retract the money meant for my wife’s treatment. I confronted him again. Now he said your father was threatening him. Told me your father was too influential, had too much money, and would hire a team of defense attorneys.”

Stanley took a ragged breath. “Your dad killed my son. Then he refused to take responsibility for it and was going to allow an innocent man to go to prison. The guy worked me up until I was in a rage. At the time, I was so vulnerable. I believed every word he said, but I think he played me so I would want to kill your father.”

“Why would he do that?”

“My guess is that it was the other way around. That your father was the one about to go to the police and tell them what happened. After all, Payne’s story was all over the news. There were only two people in the vehicle, and if one of them was dead, the other could deny it to their grave. And get away with it.”

“You think the passenger manipulated you into murder,” I said.

“He lit the match, and I was the fire he invited inside. He told me that your father was going to be alone the next night. And that there was one door always unlocked.”

Boom. The explosion.

“Who told you the door was going to be unlocked?” I demanded.

His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, each syllable heavy with resignation. “Alexander Lockwood.”

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