Looks like only one of us was right.

“The test confirmed it,” Grier answers. “You were the father, Callum.”

Dad swallows hard. His eyes glaze over a bit.

“Dad?” I say tentatively.

He stares at the ceiling as if it’s too painful for him to look at me. A muscle in the back of his jaw flexes, and then he shudders out an unsteady breath. “I thought she was lying to me. She didn’t know I’d had the vasectomy, and I thought…” Another breath. “I thought, it had to be someone else’s.”

Yeah. He decided it was mine. But I can’t blame him for reaching that conclusion. He’d known about me and Brooke, so of course the thought had entered his mind. I guess the other thought—that it could actually be his—never did.

Sympathy ripples through me. Dad might’ve hated Brooke, but he would’ve been a good father to her kid. The loss has to be killing him.

He inhales heavily before finally looking my way. “I…ah, do you need me here or can you handle the rest of the meeting on your own?”

“I can handle it,” I answer gruffly, because it’s obvious he can’t handle a damn thing at the moment.

Dad nods. “All right. Shout if you need me.”

His legs don’t appear to be steady as he leaves the room. There’s a beat of silence, and then Grier speaks up.

“Are you ready to continue?”

I nod weakly.

“All right. Let’s talk about Ella O’Halloran.” He shuffles through the endless fucking pile of papers and pulls out another set. “Ella O’Halloran, formerly known as Ella Harper, is a seventeen-year-old runaway who was found masquerading as a thirty-five-year-old and stripping in Tennessee just three months ago.”

Has it only been three months? I feel like Ella’s been a part of my life forever. Anger begins to pound at my temples. “Don’t talk about her.”

“I’m going to have to talk about her. She’s part of this case whether you like it or not. In fact, Harvey said you brought her along to some of the fights. She was unfazed by the blood.”

“What’s your point?” I repeat through gritted teeth.

“Let’s go through a few more statements, shall we?” He holds up a document and jabs it. “Here’s one from Jordan Carrington.”

“Jordan Carrington hates Ella’s guts.”

Grier once again ignores my comments. “‘We invited Ella to come try out for the dance team. She showed up wearing a thong and a bra, prancing through the gym. She has no shame and even fewer morals. It’s an embarrassment. But for some reason Reed likes this. He was never like this until she came along. He used to be decent, but she brings out the worst in him. Whenever she’s around, he’s extra mean.’”

“That is the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Jordan taped some freshman girl up to the side of Astor Park’s walls, and I’m extra mean? Ella didn’t change me one bit.”

“So you’re saying you were prone to violence even before Ella came along.”

“You’re twisting my words,” I spit out.

He laughs harshly. “This is a cakewalk compared to what a trial will be like.” He throws down Jordan’s statement and picks up another. “This is from Abigail Wentworth. Apparently you two were dating until you hurt her. Question: ‘How do you feel about Reed?’ Answer: ‘He hurt me. He hurt me really bad.’”

“I never touched her,” I say hotly.

“Question: ‘How did he hurt you?’ Answer: ‘I can’t talk about it. It’s too painful.’”

I explode from the chair, but Grier’s relentless.

“‘Interview was cut short because subject was distraught and could not be consoled. We will need to follow up.’”

I grab the back of the chair and squeeze it hard. “I broke up with her. We dated until I wasn’t feeling it anymore and then I broke it off. I didn’t hurt her physically. If I hurt her feelings, I’m sorry about that, but she must not be too sad because she fucked my brother last month.”

Grier’s left eyebrow pops up again. I feel the urge to pin him down and shave that fucker off.

“Great. The jury will love to hear about your deviant brothers.”

“What about them?”

He rattles more pages at me. “I have about ten statements here that say two of them date one girl.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It shows the kind of household you’re living in. It shows that you’re a kid of privilege who is in constant trouble. Your father cleans up your messes by paying people off.”

“I break jaws, not women.”

“You’re the only person on the video surveillance entering the building the night Brooke Davidson died. That’s opportunity. She was pregnant—”

“And the baby wasn’t mine,” I protest. “It was Dad’s.”

“Yes, but you were still having sex with her, as Dinah O’Halloran will testify to. That’s motive. Your DNA is under her fingernails, suggesting that she fought you off. The bandage on your side was newly applied that night. You have a history of physical violence, particularly when a woman in your life is verbally maligned. Your family is, if I can quote Ms. Carrington, without shame or morals. It’s not a stretch that you would kill someone if you felt threatened. That’s means. Finally, you have no alibi.”

When I was four or five, Gideon pushed me into the pool. At the time, I hadn’t really learned how to swim, which is dangerous when you live on the shore. I was fighting Mom about getting into the water, so Gideon up and threw me into the pool. The water rushed over my head and into my ears. I thrashed around like a helpless, dumb fish on dry land, thinking I would never get to the top. I probably would’ve grown up afraid of the water had Gideon not hauled me out and pushed me back in again and again and again until I learned that the water wasn’t going to kill me. But I still remember the fear and can taste the desperation.

That’s how I’m feeling now. Afraid and desperate. A cold sweat breaks out at the back of my neck as Greer picks up the last page.

“This is a plea deal,” he says quietly, as if he senses just how much he’s rattled me. “I worked it out with the prosecutor this morning. You plead to involuntary manslaughter. The sentence is for twenty years.”