“Harvey’s a narc, and he cries if you so much as glare in his general direction,” I say tersely.

Grier arches his eyebrows for a second and then resettles his glasses. “Question: ‘How did Mr. Royal appear during fights?’ Answer: ‘Usually he pretended to be calm.’”

“Pretended? I was calm. It was a dock fight. Nothing was on the line. There wasn’t anything to be excited about.”

Grier keeps reading. “‘Usually he pretended to be calm, but if you said anything bad about his mom, he’d go ballistic. About a year ago, some guy called his mom a whore. He beat that kid so hard the poor shit had to go to the hospital. Royal was banned after that. He broke this kid’s jaw and his eye socket.’ Question: ‘So he never fought again?’ Answer. ‘No. He came back about six weeks later. Will Kendall controlled dock access and said Royal could come back. The rest of us went along with it. I think he paid Kendall off.’”

I stare at my feet so Greer doesn’t see the guilt in my eyes. I did pay off Kendall. The kid wanted a new engine for his GTO, which would’ve set him back two grand. I gave him the money, and I was back in the fights.

“Nothing to say?” Grier prompts.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try to shrug carelessly. “Yeah, that’s all true.”

Grier makes another note. “Speaking of fights over your mother…” He pauses and picks up another stapled document. “Jaw breaking appears to be a particularly favorite pastime of yours.”

I clench my own jaw and stare stonily back at the lawyer. I know what’s coming next.

“Austin McCord, age nineteen, still reports problems with his jaw. He was forced to eat soft foods for six months while his jaw was wired shut. He required two teeth implants and to this day has difficulty eating solid foods. When asked about the cause of his injury, Mr. McCord was”—Grier shakes the document a little—“pardon the pun, closemouthed, but at least one friend of McCord’s explained that McCord had been in an altercation with Reed Royal, which resulted in serious injuries to his face.”

“Why are you reading that? You made that deal with the McCords and you said it was confidential.” As per the deal, Dad set up a trust to fund McCord’s four-year tuition costs at Duke. A gaze in my father’s direction reveals his own distress. His mouth is a thin line and his eyes are red-rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept for days.

“Confidentiality of those deals are meaningless in a criminal case. Eventually McCord’s testimony can be subpoenaed and used against you.”

Grier’s words pull my attention back to him. “He had it coming.”

“Again, because he called your mother a bad name.”

This is bullshit. As if Grier would ever stand for his momma being badmouthed.

“You’re telling me that a man isn’t going to stand up for the women of his household? Every juror would excuse that.” No southern male would ever allow that kind of insult to pass unchecked.

It’s one reason the McCords took the deal. They knew prosecuting that kind of case would go nowhere, especially against my family. You can’t call someone’s mother a drug-addled slut and get away with it.

Grier’s face tightens. “If I had known that you were engaged in disreputable activity to this extent, I wouldn’t have suggested to your father that we settle this matter in a monetary fashion. I would’ve suggested military school.”

“Oh, was that your idea? Because Dad always throws that threat around whenever he doesn’t like what we’re doing. I guess I can thank you for that,” I say sarcastically.

“Reed,” my father chides from his place near the bookshelves. It’s the first thing he’s said since we walked in here, but I’ve been watching his expression and it just keeps getting bleaker.

Grier glares at me. “We’re on the same team here. Don’t fight me, boy.”

“Don’t call me boy.” I glare back, dropping my arms to my knees.

“Why? Are you going to break my jaw, too?”

His eyes fall to the hands I’ve got curled into fists in my lap.

“What’s your point here?” I mutter.

“My point is—”

A soft ringing cuts him off.

“Hold that thought.” Grier reaches for the sleek cell phone on the desk and checks the screen. Then he frowns. “I need to take this. Excuse me.”

Dad and I exchange a wary look as the lawyer steps out into the hall. Since he closes the door behind him, neither of us is able to hear what he’s saying.

“These statements are bad,” I say flatly.

Dad gives a bleak nod. “Yes. They are.”

“They make me look like a psycho.” A powerless sensation squeezes my throat. “This is freaking bullshit. So what if I like to fight? There’re guys out there who fight for a living. Boxing, MMA, wrestling—you don’t see anybody accusing them of being bloodthirsty maniacs.”

“I know.” Dad’s voice is oddly gentle. “But it’s not just the fighting, Reed. You’ve got a temper. You—” He stops when the door swings open and Grier appears.

“I just got off the phone with the ADA,” Grier says in a tone I can’t decipher. Confused, maybe? “The lab results from Brooke’s autopsy came back this morning.”

Dad and I both straighten our shoulders. “The DNA test on the baby?” I ask slowly.

Grier nods.

I take a breath. “Who’s the father?”

And suddenly I’m…afraid. I know there’s zero chance of me being that kid’s father, but what if some corrupt lab tech rigged the results? What if Grier opens his mouth and announces—

“You are.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s not talking to me.

He’s talking to my dad.

23

Reed

Silence crashes over the study. My father is gaping at the lawyer. I’m gaping at my father.

“What do you mean, it’s mine?” Dad’s tortured eyes are fixed on Grier. “That’s not possible. I had a…”

Vasectomy, I finish silently. When Brooke announced her pregnancy, Dad was certain the baby couldn’t be his, because he’d gotten snipped after Mom had the twins. And I was certain it couldn’t be mine, because I hadn’t slept with Brooke in more than half a year.