41. Anonymous

41

ANONYMOUS

I reach into my pocket, pull out a flash drive, and toss it onto the table between us. “It’s all there. Emails, bank records, surveillance footage. Everything he used to make you think I was some kind of monster.”

Her gaze flickers to the drive, but she doesn’t reach for it. “You expect me to believe you were a saint?”

“No. I expect you to believe I was doing my job.”

Her laugh is hollow, almost a bark. “Your job? What job, Michael? Pretending to be an architect? You watched me kill for you. You let me believe?—”

“I didn’t let you believe anything,” I interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “I didn’t have a choice. You wanted what you wanted. I let you have it, but I always tried to keep you safe.”

“Safe,” she repeats, her voice heavy with disdain as she glances away. “Is that what you call it? Letting me think my husband was a pedophile? Letting me think Sophie was—” Her voice breaks, and she stops, staring out at the deck.

“Safety would have been you questioning the evidence—but you didn’t, did you? ”

She doesn’t answer, but her silence speaks volumes. I press on.

I sigh, my gaze dropping for a moment before meeting hers again. “J.C. Warren lied to you. Everything he showed you—every piece of evidence, every recording—was fabricated. How easily you fell right into his trap, just like you fell into this one.”

She laughs, but it’s a bitter, hollow sound. “So, you’re saying he made it all up? The accounts? The trafficking connections? The lists of girls? All lies?”

“Not all,” I admit, holding her stare. “My job was to infiltrate trafficking networks, Charlotte. To get close enough to tear them apart from the inside. And I did. For years. But Warren had made some investments of his own. He saw an opportunity to ensure I didn’t disturb those investments. And when that didn’t work, he came for you.”

Her face twists, and I can see the cracks forming. “So, what? You’re some kind of hero now?”

“No,” I say, refilling her glass. “I mean, I wouldn’t go that far.”

She looks away. “None of this matters. You lied to me.”

“You gave me no choice. People are who they are, Charlotte. I wasn’t the only one. I was thinking of our children.”

Her head snaps back to me at the mention of the girls, her eyes blazing. “Your lies are so on point. You’ve practiced this speech, yes?”

“I’m not the one who put them at risk. That was all you, sweetheart. The moment you believed Warren’s lies. The moment you decided I was the enemy.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can see the words cutting through her defenses, leaving marks she’ll feel long after I’m gone. Good. She spends so much time running from the slightest hint of emotion. She needs to feel this. She needs to see what a fool she has been.

“But I didn’t come back to beg for your forgiveness.” I let the words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. “I came back because…” I gesture toward the dead man lying at her feet. “It looks like you need me.”

Her eyes flick to the man on the floor, then back to me. “I really don’t.”

“You really do. You’ve walked right into a trap. And I think that handler of yours is right—you need a vacation. What’s going to happen next is for the best…”

“I don’t need you to tell me what I need.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I say simply. “Because without me, everything you’ve built—everything you care about—will burn.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, I see the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide. But then it’s gone, replaced by the cold, calculating woman I know too well.

“You don’t know me as well as you think,” she says finally.

I can’t help but smile. “Oh, Charlotte. I know you better than you know yourself.”

We sit there in silence for a beat, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy between us. She doesn’t tell me to leave. She doesn’t tell me to stay. But then, it’s there—the shift in her expression. Something has clicked.

“Wait a minute. What did you just say?”

I raise an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“No, Michael. You said it was going to be for the best…”

“Oh, right. That.”

“What did you mean?” She swallows hard, as if bracing for something she doesn’t want to hear. “What’s going to happen next?”