Page 16 of Colt
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process what I was seeing.
“Fuck.” Dutch’s voice was hard. “They fabricated evidence?”
“They didn’t just fabricate it, they did it badly.” Glitch’s jaw was tight. “Anyone with basic photo forensics training could have spotted these fakes. The metadata is sloppy, the compositing is amateur hour, the timestamps are internally inconsistent. They didn’t think you’d ever question it. They didn’t think you’d ever check.”
He was right. I hadn’t questioned. I hadn’t checked. I’d looked at those photos and I’d believed, because why would my brothers lie? Why would Scar hand me an envelope full of fabricated evidence and look me in the eye with pity?
“The lies didn’t stop there.” Glitch pulled up another document. “The divorce papers. You said Lilac signed them, right? Agreed to the divorce without contest?”
“That’s what the lawyer said.”
“Here’s the thing.” Glitch zoomed in on a signature. “This is the signature on the divorce papers. And this—” He pulled up another document. “—is Lilac’s actual signature from heremployment records at the time. Look at the L, the way the loop is formed. Look at the C at the end.”
I squinted at the screen. They looked different. The divorce signature was shaky, uncertain. The employment signature was bold and confident.
“They’re not even close,” Indira said. “That’s a clear forgery.”
“Why would they forge—”
“And the money.” Glitch pulled up another screen—bank records this time. “You said Lilac cleaned out your joint account, right? That she took everything before she ran?”
“I saw it myself.” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. “Logged in, account was empty. My brothers gave me the cash to replace it. Said it was the least they could do after what she’d done.”
“Look at the timeline.” Glitch pointed to a series of transactions. “The money wasn’t touched until the day after Lilac supposedly left. It was transferred to a Death’s Head MC account—” He highlighted the line. “—and then four days later, the exact same amount was deposited into your personal account.”
I stared at the numbers. The dates. The account names.
They’d taken the money themselves. Moved it around to make it look like Lilac had stolen it, then “generously” replaced what she’d supposedly taken. All part of the story. All part of the lie.
“Jesus Christ,” Dutch muttered.
“It gets worse.” Glitch’s voice was grim as he pulled up another screen. “I dug into medical records from that time period. Lilac was admitted to a hospital two days before you got back from that club run. Emergency room visit—she’d fainted at work. They ran tests.”
My heart was pounding. “What? Why?”
“Pregnancy confirmation.” Glitch met my eyes. “She was eight weeks along with twins. The records are right there.”
The room tilted. Eight weeks. My mind raced backward, counting. Eight weeks before she disappeared would have been… late September. Right after I’d gotten back from the run to El Paso.
The memory slammed into me like a freight train. Five days on the road, missing her like crazy. Walking through our apartment door to find her waiting for me in nothing but one of my t-shirts, that shy smile on her face that always undid me. I’d barely made it past the threshold before I had her pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she gasped my name.
We hadn’t made it to the bedroom that first time. Or the second. By the third, we’d at least gotten as far as the couch, her body arched beneath mine, my name falling from her lips repeatedly.
“I missed you so much, Colt. Don’t ever leave me again.”
“Never, baby. I’m never leaving you.”
I’d meant it at the time. God help me, I’d meant every word. Until the next run had come around and Prez had insisted I go. It was the life. It was only a few days. Lilac would be at work. So I’d gone.
“Look at the record.” Glitch zoomed in on the hospital document. “Attending physician: Dr. Don French. Ring any bells?”
Yeah, I knew that name. Don French. Doc French. Doc. The Death’s Head brother who handled all the club’s medical needs—the one who’d patched me up after more bar fights than I could count. The one who’d been at the clubhouse that night, who’d helped calm me down after Scar told me the story about Lilac running off.
He’d known. He’d examined her, confirmed her pregnancy, and then he’d helped cover up whatever happened.
“And here.” Glitch pointed to another field on the screen. “Father’s name, as reported by the patient: Cliff Spencer.”
My name.
