Page 69 of Downfall

Unknown

Mailboxes to the left.

I turn my head to where there is a neat little row of mailboxes ranging from twenty-five A through thirty D. When I get to them, I notice they all have keyholes. Obviously, I don’t have a key, but when I look at the last one, Thirty D is ever so slightly open, so I pull it and sure enough, it gives. I reach my hand inside and prepare for the worst. A bomb, a poisonous snake, who the hell knows? But instead, my hand lands on something smooth. It’s a large manila envelope, the kind with the little string at the top that you have to twist around to keep it closed. Doing a quick check over my shoulder to see if I’m being watched, I tuck it under my arm and get back in my car.

I can’t bring this home, and Ashton has probably locked up the office for the night, so I wait until I’m far enough from the housing development and turn off onto a little dirt patch on the side of the road. My hands are practically shaking as I unhook the red string, winding it around until the top of the envelope pops open. There’s a stack of maybe thirty to forty papers inside. The top page is a notice of acquisition for an LLC. I’ve never heard of the company, but it looks like they went bankrupt shortly before they were acquired by Marshall’s firm. The next page is nearly identical, only it’s for a different company. There’s page after page of acquisition forms for various companies that have filed for chapter eleven before being acquired by Declan’s father. I’m not very savvy when it comes to business, but it seems like this is pretty standard practice for an acquisitions company. I mean, it’s literally in the name. Why does whoever texted me want me to see it?

I continue to leaf through papers until I get to printouts of emails. Some of them are from a woman named Nicole and some are from Marshall himself. The subjects all contain the word “consultation,” and when I look at the recipients’ names, a few look familiar. The one on top is between Nicole Richardson and Tom Jancey. I flip back through the stack of papers and sure enough, Tom Jancey is named as the president of one of the companies that was acquired. I flip to the page directly after the consultation email, and it’s a loan agreement that’s been e-signed. I’ve never taken out a loan before, but I’m pretty sure the interest isn’t supposed to be high enough to never break even.

I start organizing everything into stacks, placing them on every surface in my car. For every acquisition, there’s a corresponding email in which the company is offered a free consultation, then one where the terms of a loan are outlined. The loan agreement is signed mere months before the company is finally acquired. Out of sheer curiosity, I pull out my phone and start searching the business names. They are all mid-size companies, some family-owned and operated, others that were starting out, but all of them were the subject of articles citing financial struggles at one point or another before eventually filing for bankruptcy.

My stomach sinks, nausea scratching its way up my throat. I finally see it—what the anonymous person wanted me to know. Marshall Astor has been systematically preying on struggling companies, offering them bullshit consulting services and then getting them in over their heads with high-interest loans so he can strip them for parts. The contents of the envelope are not exactly a smoking gun, but there’s enough of a pattern to warrant an investigation. Whoever collected all this is someone who both had access to internal files and wants to see Marshall go down.

But why me? Because they know I’m married to his son or because I work for a newspaper and have the resources to expose him? If I do, what does that mean for Declan? He worked at the company. Does he know about what his father is doing? Was he helping him before he left?

I’m not going to get any answers sitting in this ditch, so I attempt to stuff the papers back into the envelope, but they catch on something. There’s one more sheet I didn’t see. I pull it out and my hand flies to my mouth with a gasp. It’s a mug shot. Marshall’s mug shot. Attached to it is a police report. My eyes scan the paper until they land on the charge and my stomach rolls.

Domestic assault.

My throat goes dry.

Did he do something to his wife? I look at the date, which wasn’t available on the bare-bones record I found the other day. The arrest is only from a year ago. That’s right around when Emory said Declan’s mom had an affair. He must have paid someone off to cover it up and have it sealed.

My head spins with indecision. Do I tell Declan what I found? It might gut him, but I would want to know if it were my mom. Or do I wait until I have all the facts before turning his world upside down? Maybe he already knows and it wouldn’t make a difference.

I blow out a heavy sigh, and with unanswered questions still bouncing around in my head, I place the files in my glove compartment before pulling out onto the road.

I still don’t know what to do by the time I pull into Declan’s driveway and see Nate’s Range Rover parked on the far side. As far as I know, Declan and Nate aren’t exactly friends, so what the hell is he doing here?

Opening the door slowly, so I don’t make noise, I enter the house. Voices filter down the hallway and seem to come from the kitchen.

“Look, man. I’ll see what I can do, but if she’s not willing to cooperate, my hands are tied.”

Are they talking about me?

There’s a laugh, or more like a snicker, and then, “I thought you were the one who likes doing the tying?”

A brief pause. “Did you ask me to come here to talk about my sex life or because you need my help?”

Silence.

“Fine. I need your help.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Footsteps approach, so I swing the door open, pretending I just walked in. Nate Caldwell is tall—like really tall—with jet-black hair and piercing eyes that sometimes look more gray than blue. He’s lean, but you can tell by the way his dress pants strain against his thighs that he works out. In short, he’s intimidating as fuck. I don’t think I’ve ever said more than two words to the man. So when his long legs eat up the distance to the front door, I almost cower in place as if he’s a king and I’m a lowly peasant who must bow to him. Thankfully, I don’t actually bow, but I do stutter.

“H-hi. I was just getting in. From out there. Where I was.” I point to the open door.

Nate smirks knowingly like he’s used to people not being able to form coherent sentences in his presence. “It’s good to see you, Skylar.” With that, he disappears, as the sound of his engine humming to life fills the empty doorway.

“Why don’t you be a little more obvious?”

I look behind me and there’s Declan, intimidating in his own right, ripped black denim, a gray T-shirt clinging to him like a second skin, his hair…dark, all traces of blonde completely gone.

“You dyed your hair back?” I squeak. I’m not proud of the way my voice sounds, but it feels like I got caught red-handed, so there’s not much I can do about it.

“Don’t change the subject.” He stalks toward me. “I heard your voice get all high-pitched and stuttery when you were talking to Nate.”