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Chapter 797:
Easton closed the distance between them. He reached out and took her freezing hand without a word, then slipped it, along with his own, deep into the warm pocket of his wool coat. Together, they turned and walked away down the path.
A few dozen yards behind them, standing silently in the morning mist, was another marble headstone. The name Caleb Compton was carved into the cold stone, waiting for the truth to finally break the surface.
At nine o’clock in the morning, a mud-splattered SUV jumped the curb and slammed to a halt directly in front of the glass doors of the Compton Group headquarters.
Cole shoved the door open. He did not turn off the engine. He did not take the keys. He marched straight through the revolving doors, his wet shoes leaving dirty tracks across the pristine marble lobby. A dark, suffocating aura radiated from his entire body.
The security guards and front desk receptionists scrambled out of his path, pressing their backs against the walls. They had never seen their CEO look like this. Cole Compton was always a picture of tailored perfection and icy control. Today, he looked like a man walking to his own execution.
Cole stepped into his private elevator and hit the button for the top floor. The doors opened onto a silent hallway. He shoved the double mahogany doors of his office open so hard they bounced off the walls with a loud crack.
𝘋o𝗐𝗻𝘭𝗼ad𝗮𝘣lе р𝗗𝖥𝘀 о𝘯 𝗴a𝗅ոо𝘷𝗲𝗅𝘴.с𝘰𝘮
His chief assistant was already standing by the massive desk. Three thick manila envelopes sat on the polished wood, each one sealed with bright red wax and stamped with a confidential marker.
“Sir, this is what our deep-ops team could pull in the last two hours,” the assistant said, his posture rigid. “It’s not everything, but it’s enough to confirm the timeline p>
Cole ripped his damp jacket from his shoulders and threw it onto the expensive rug. He walked to the desk, breathing heavily, and grabbed the first envelope, tearing the top clean off.
He pulled out the FBI report on the ten-year-old car crash. Attached to the back were copies of Swiss bank transfers from Richard Beasley to a local mechanic.
Cole’s eyes darted across the black text. Every word felt like a needle driving into his skull. He read the coroner’s summary. Vivian Erickson had not died on impact. The report stated she had been trapped in the burning wreckage, struggling for ten full minutes before the smoke and flames finally killed her.
Cole’s stomach violently contracted. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids. A vivid memory flashed through his mind — June, sitting on the floor of their apartment during a thunderstorm, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. June, obsessively checking the brake fluid and tire pressure of her car every single week.
He had mocked her for it. He had called her paranoid. He had watched her suffer through those panic attacks and walked away to comfort Alycia over a broken fingernail.
His hands trembled as he reached for the second envelope and tore it open. The deep-ops team had ripped these files from the encrypted archives of Wall Street hedge funds in record time.