I shift in my seat when all I really want to do is sag in relief. Thank Christ. I start to talk and then stop, unsure what to say next.
“Dodgers,” Aiden says, recognizing my uncertainty and owning this conversation like nobody’s business. “Let’s talk about last night’s Dodgers game.”
All I can do is shake my head.
I’m not ready for this parenting shit.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU mean early parole?” Colton’s voice ricochets off the stairwell and up into the room, shocking me from the case reports I’m trying to complete on my laptop and indicating he is home. Within an instant, I set my computer aside and move downstairs to find out what’s going on.
“I know, CJ. I know,” Colton says, one hand fisted at his side, posture tense, as I walk into the great room, his back to me framed against the open doors to the patio. “But it’s too much of a goddamn coincidence, don’t you think? The timing, his vindication . . . all of it adds up.”
Colton must sense me and turns to meet my eyes, holding one finger up requesting I wait while he finishes the conversation. I watch the emotions play over his face as he listens to our lawyer. He moves to abate the restlessness of whatever CJ is telling him, my eyes following him pace, my mind trying to figure out what’s going on. They say their goodbyes, and he turns again to face me.
“Eddie.”
It’s all he says as he smacks his hands together. That simple name—a blast from our past—and Colton’s reflex reaction cause details from three years ago to flood back to me. The CD Enterprises patent for an innovative neck protection device being denied because someone else was already in the process of getting a very similar one approved. Almost identical in fact. Investigations to find out that the other patent applicant had CDE’s same exact blueprints for the device, followed by digging into the layering of the corporation applying to find Eddie Kimball on the board of directors.
The same Eddie Kimball who Colton had fired for stealing said blueprints.
As I look at the fire lighting up Colton’s eyes, I think of the two-year legal battle that ensued over the right of ownership and future revenues from the device the blueprints made. I’m reminded of the stress, the lies, the accusations, the mediation meetings, and offers of settlement to buy time on Eddie’s part. After spending a fortune in legal counsel, the judge eventually ruled in our favor and convicted Eddie of numerous charges—fraud, perjury, false witness—and sentenced him to a four-year jail sentence.
“How?” I ask, making calculations about someone I mentally told myself was out of our lives. The trial ended three years ago. He had a four-year sentence.
“Early release. Good Behavior. Jails too crowded from the three-strikes statute.” He answers my unspoken questions as he runs a hand through his hair, his head nodding, and I can see him trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind.
“Tawny knew where we were.” It’s all I say, voice quiet, gaze fixed on him. He looks up, narrows his eyes, and grits his teeth, not wanting to hear me say it again.
“I know,” he says with a sigh, “but I’m trying to figure out how it all fits together. What? Did Tawny go up and get the video of us that night? If she had it way back when, then why keep it and release it all this time later?” He slumps down on the couch and puts his head in his hand while he tries to make sense of it.
I move and sit down next to him and rest my head on his shoulder.
“I can’t give you the answers but it all seems too convenient for her not to have had a hand in this.” My voice is calm but anger fires in my veins at the thought that either of them have had a hand in this. And yet I shouldn’t expect any less from them.
Bitches can’t change their stripes. Oh wait, that’s tigers. Hmpf. Doesn’t matter because I refuse to give her a second thought. If she did do this, then Lord have mercy on her when Colton gets done with her.
The idea doesn’t take the sting out of our public humiliation any less, but at least with this newfound information about Eddie’s release, we might have some place to start looking.
“Kelly is trying to track him down through his parole officer,” Colton says, pulling me from my thoughts. He reaches out and squeezes my knee to show me he’s present although I know mentally he’s a million miles away.
“This is all just so fucked up,” I murmur, speaking my thoughts aloud and garnering a sound of agreement from him. We sit like this for a few moments. The silence is comforting because we know outside this bubble we’ve surrounded ourselves with, there are people waiting to tear us apart.
My cell phone rings from the kitchen counter causing me to sigh because I’m sure it’s some intrusive person from a tabloid. “I need to change my number,” I groan.
“I’ll handle this,” he says, beating me to the punch and getting up from the couch. Besides, with the time it would take to get my pregnant self up, the call would probably go to voicemail.
I sink back into the couch and wait for Colton to answer and unleash his temper on whatever poor soul thinks they are calling me, so I’m surprised when I hear him greet the person warmly.
“Hey, good afternoon,” Colton says. “She’s right here, Teddy. Hold on.”
And there is something in that split second of time that causes my brain—that has been so overwhelmed by everything today—to fire on all cylinders. I thought of my parents and the boys. I’ve read articles denouncing my motives and implying I released the tape for my own benefit. I called Jax and had him cover my shift at The House. And yet not once did I pick up the phone and call my boss. Not once did I think of damage control or how this man I greatly admire is going to look at me now.