Chapter 39

The mass of reporters swirls and mobs on the courthouse steps, surrounding Jonathan like sharks around bait. I, for one, am glad to remain in the shadows for this one.

Thomas and Mia stand next to me, ready to make their dramatic return to the living, while Gabe is likely hiding in plain sight somewhere. Izzy and Charlotte are at Izzy’s house with Steven.

Gabe has a top-notch security system in place, more befitting Fort Knox than a private residence, so it’d seem like a safe place for them to stay while we break the news to the world that we’re all alive.

Jonathan holds up a hand, stopping the barrage of questions being shouted at him. “Yes, we do have a statement about the news of Custis Blackwell’s death this morning. If you’ll please indulge me a moment.”

The reporters closest to him stop barking questions and lean in closer, trying to get their microphones as in his face as possible even though he’s speaking into one at the podium.

He looks back, and that’s Thomas’s cue. He takes Mia’s hand, and together, they step out from behind the column and begin to walk down the steps toward the podium.

It takes all of two seconds for someone to shout out, “Thomas Goldstone! Mia Goldstone!”

Thomas smiles congenially, but I know he’s still feeling the effects of last night. It’s not just playing down to fit into the ‘sad news’ of Blackwell’s death. At least, that’s the way the media has been reporting it today.

“Hello, everyone. Yes, I am Thomas Goldstone, and I am very much alive. As is my fiancée, Mia Karakova.” He emphasizes her last name, politely correcting the reporter who prematurely gave her his last name. “As are my friends, Gabe Jackson, Isabella Turner, Charlotte Dunn, Lance Jacobs, and Steven Wilson.”

There are murmurs all across the crowd, and Thomas waits a moment for them to die down before continuing. “The strikes against Roseboro over the last few days have done more than sadden me. There are no words to describe the pain and horror inflicted on our city. But as is so often the case, there is a lot going on behind the scenes. In the interest of transparency, I would like to pull back the curtain, if you will, for the only way forward is with the truth. It’s not comfortable, not pretty and poetic, but it is the truth.”

I worry about just how much truth Thomas is going to spill but hold my tongue, knowing that Jonathan and he practiced this speech multiple times today in preparation for this press conference.

“When I came to Roseboro, I found an established and thriving city. At the time, that was under the leadership of one man, Custis Blackwell. He turned a small town into a booming metropolis, but he was not alone. The citizens of Roseboro worked along with him. Unfortunately, Blackwell didn’t do this for the good of us all, but for one purpose only. Absolute power.”

Speaking ill of the dead apparently is like catnip for the reporters because they’re hanging on Thomas’s every word.

“I was unaware of his ambitions and set out to make Roseboro my home as well. And I built an empire of my own, with the blood, sweat, and tears of those in the Goldstone family. By that, I don’t mean those who bear my last name but every single Goldstone employee. We created that building, that community, together. And I aimed to spread positivity and kindness within its walls and out to Roseboro at large. And we’ve succeeded. We succeeded so well that Custis Blackwell felt threatened by our community, our caring for one another, as if by my very presence, his importance was diminished.”

It’s a serious accusation, but just the tip of the iceberg Thomas is about to reveal.

“In the last few months, I discovered a saboteur inside my company. I recently discovered that man was working on Mr. Blackwell’s orders. More recently, one of my smaller investments, Cake Culture, which is run by a close personal friend, Charlotte Dunn, was targeted by arson. Her employee, Miss Trixie Reynolds, confessed to us that she was also working for Mr. Blackwell.” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “And then, our headquarters . . . my home . . .”

The crowd is deadly silent, not a whisper of a question, not a pen scratching on paper. But they are hungry, ravenous for the dirty gossip.

“I was indeed in my apartment with my friends, as my assistant told police. She came up to have me sign for a letter from Custis Blackwell himself. The words will stay with me always. He felt I was usurping a role that was rightly his. In his god-complex-addled mind, there simply was not a place for the two of us in Roseboro. So he was taking out the competition by any means he felt necessary. The destruction of Goldstone Tower was for two purposes—to kill me and everyone I care about and to erase my name from Roseboro forever. It was by the narrowest of margins that we escaped the collapse.”

Thomas looks over at Mia, knowing that this is where things get sketchy. “We went into hiding for our safety while we investigated what happened.”

I hope Thomas is up to the task because his every word is going to be reported, replayed on every channel at six, ten, and again in the morning. Probably for days to come. The truth must be very carefully shaded.

But I shouldn’t doubt him. He may not be a SEAL, but he didn’t build his empire easily, and he’s commanding with his version of the truth, no matter how directed it may be.

“My security has been working day and night, quite literally, to ensure our safety. And only after Mr. Blackwell’s reported suicide and the tragic and unfortunate murder of Miss Reynolds did we feel a return to Roseboro was prudent. As for the future, I feel certain that Mr. Blackwell’s involvement in the terroristic destruction of Goldstone Tower will be revealed by the authorities.”

Thomas looks over at Chief Harris, who looks red-faced and uncomfortable, but he stops fidgeting with his mustache long enough to nod in agreement.

“These events have shown me that Mr. Blackwell had friends in many places inside Roseboro.” He pauses, scanning the audience pointedly. “I would like to believe that without his malevolent influence, these friends, whomever they may be, will feel the freedom of a fresh start in this changing time. May we all pull together, reconnect with one another, and rebuild Roseboro. Not in the image of a self-appointed, self-aggrandizing king, but because of every one of us. We are Roseboro!”

There’s a half-beat of silence, then the audience applauds. Even the reporters are touched by Thomas’s rallying cry. He’s a hell of a slick speaker, taking them on a journey through shock, awe, horror, disbelief, and finally, leaving them with a hopeful call to action. I just hope it works.

Thomas steps back from the podium, not taking questions. But a booming voice follows us inside the courthouse. Thomas stops, and we turn to see Chief Harris barreling over.

“Mr. Goldstone, those were some serious allegations you just made. I hope you can back them up,” he says, blustering.

I step in front of Thomas, holding out a hand. “Chief Harris. Good to see you again. I was meaning to contact you after our previous discussion. Before she died, Trixie told us that she’d let a man in to tinker with the ovens under Blackwell’s order. It was the same man who assaulted me. I’m confident he was employed by Blackwell. I’m sure there’s a way to find the connection. There always is.”

It’s a pointed dig, a strong suspicion I already had when such a high-ranking official showed interest in such a low-level charge as a lame assault. But he takes my meaning just as intended.

“Are you trying to pussyfoot around saying something, boy?” Harris’s face is getting redder, his chest puffing up.

Thomas steps forward. “I think what Lance is saying is that Blackwell had lots of friends in this town. I’m sure they’ll all be found with our own investigation and the federal investigation into his business practices. But like I said out there, what I’d like to hope is that those who were caught in Blackwell’s web, whether through their own choice or by manipulation and force, can feel free now that he’s dead. And we can all work together, doing what’s right and doing what’s right for Roseboro.”

Harris narrows his eyes, searching Thomas’s face for something, or maybe searching his shriveled heart for an ounce of integrity. But he offers a hand, and as he and Thomas shake, Harris says, “This is a good city, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. Always have, always will, so you just let me know if there’s anything that needs addressing.” He dips his chin and saunters away.

He’s obviously been on Blackwell’s payroll for who knows how long, but maybe he has some twisted sense of trying to do the right thing too. It’s obvious that Blackwell preyed on people’s weaknesses. It seems Harris’s weakness is that while he’s a big shot with the police, he wants to play with the big dogs of the city. He’s willing to do their bidding, for Blackwell, and now, for Thomas.

“I’d be careful with that one. Fresh start or no, I think he plays to the highest bidder,” I warn Thomas, and he nods.

Once we’re alone, I call home. Not telling my family that I’m alive has been hell on me, and I know it’s been even worse for them.

“Lance? Is it really you?” It’s Dad, and I can hear the hesitant hope in his voice, the tears making his voice rough.

“Yeah, Dad. It’s me. I’m alive. I’m okay.” It’s a relief to tell him, and his yell thanking God is a boon to my spirit.

“Miranda! Cody! He’s alive!” There’s a rustle, then the sound changes as Dad puts me on speakerphone.

“Lance?!?” Mom cries.

“Hi, Mom. Hey, Cody. It’s so good to hear your voices. So much has happened.”

For now, I don’t tell them any more than what Thomas said in the press conference, but I think they’re glad to hear it from me. Within minutes, we all feel better, reconnected.

“Okay, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll be home as soon as I can. Probably” —I look to Jonathan, who mouths the answer I’m looking for— “tomorrow.”

“Okay, tomorrow then. And bring Charlotte,” Mom gushes. “I’ll make dinner, I’ll make . . . a roast.”

She says it like a slab of beef is the cure to all the world’s problems. “Mom, you don’t cook. Maybe just have Chef make something so we don’t die of food poisoning?”

Cody snorts at my dark humor. “Good one, Bro.”

But Mom harrumphs. “Lance Jacobs, if I want to make a gosh-darned roast to celebrate my son being alive, then I will certainly do so.”

I let her indignant and humorous anger wash over me. It feels good. It feels like home. “All right, Mom. Cook away. We’ll see you tomorrow night. And guys?”

“Yes?” Dad says.

“I love you all,” I say, realizing how much they need to hear that from me and how much I need to tell them.