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Chapter 747:

They were photographs of a teenage boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, smiling. Playing lacrosse on a green lawn. Wearing the uniform of Phillips Exeter Academy, the most expensive boarding school in New England.

Mike stared at the photographs. His eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t hurt him. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t even know I exist p>

“Then tell us the truth,” Easton said. “And he’ll be fine. He’ll finish school. He’ll go to college. He’ll have the life you never could. But if you don’t p>

He drew a single sheet of paper from the envelope. An IRS whistleblower form, already filled out and signed.

“I send this to the IRS,” he said. “They freeze the trust fund. They audit every transaction. They trace where the money came from. And then they charge your son with conspiracy to commit money laundering. He’ll be expelled from school. He’ll have a felony record. His whole life will be over. And it will all be your fault p>

Joan watched from across the table, her arms crossed over her chest.

T𝗵𝖾 𝗯𝖾ѕ𝘵 𝗋𝖾a𝖽іո𝘨 e𝗑р𝖾𝘳𝘪eո𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝘯

“Or,” she said, her voice quiet and cold, “we could simply tell him the truth. Tell him that his father is a murderer. Tell him that every dollar he has ever spent, every nice thing he has ever owned, was paid for with my mother’s blood. I wonder what he’ll think of you then p>

That was the final blow.

Mike broke.

He let out a sob and buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I’ll tell you everything. Just please. Don’t hurt my son p>

Joan’s heart skipped a beat. She pulled out her phone and hit record.

“Go on,” she said.

Mike lifted his head, his face streaked with tears.

“It was Richard,” he said, his voice breaking. “He came to me seven years ago. Offered me fifty thousand dollars cash. Told me he needed me to make it look like an accident. Said no one would ever suspect. Said it would be easy p>

He paused, swallowing hard.

“I was desperate,” he said. “My girlfriend was pregnant. I had no money, no job. Richard said he’d take care of us—said he’d pay for the boy’s education, his whole life. All I had to do was scratch the brake line. Just a little scratch, so it would hold for a while, then give out when she was driving fast p>

Joan’s hands clenched into fists. Her nails dug into her palms.

“I did it,” Mike said, crying harder. “I scratched the line. And then I waited p>

He looked up at Joan, his eyes pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I just wanted to take care of my son p>

Joan said nothing. She stared at him, her face blank and still. She could feel the tears burning behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

“Richard knew she was going to be on that road that day, didn’t he?” Easton asked.