Chapter 16

Wes

I don’t know this man.

Yes, at first glance he looks like my father.

In every single one of these photos.

He has his same build.

Eye color.

Hair.

However, his style is wrong.

There are no designer suits or shoes.

Just jeans.

And boots.

And belt buckles.

Fuck, this man had more belt buckles in his possession than the one who named me had ties.

And the man I called my father had a ton of ties.

I carelessly toss the photo of him happily holding a pregnant woman off to the left to join the others in the pile.

Or fall to the floor.

Doesn’t matter.

There’s no need to preserve this shit.

It’s mostly just copies.

Why?

Because his other child – which is what all of this evidence is pointing out to be true – is smart.

And cunning.

But me?

I’m fucking clueless.

Useless.

Not the one who should’ve ascended the throne of lies I had no idea he sat so comfortably on.

Mindlessly reaching for the nearest whiskey bottle to top off my glass is done in tandem with me beginning to review his financial records again.

Correction.

Will Cox’s financial records.

He couldn’t even be bothered to create a better goddamn alias to fuck around on my mother with!

It was almost as if giving us the finger.

Saying I care that this may hurt you but not enough.

Not enough to completely hide it.

Damn sure not enough not to do it.

Splashes of liquid fall on the photocopied journal entries they’re closest to during my drunken disregarding of another empty bottle.

I’ve read and reread and reread every single line Marzia Simmons, Monica’s mother, wrote about him.

When they met.

How they met.

What she called him.

What he called her.

Their first hug.

Hand hold.

Hug.

Kiss.

Fuck.

Tossing back a mouthful of the dark liquid is slipped in between thumbing through the next page of offshore documents used to properly fund his second life.

The one where he owned a fucking ranch that took up most of the property in some no nothing town.

And in that town, everyone or anyone who worked for him, crossed paths with him, had any sort of contact for longer than the time it took to shake his hand signed a fucking NDA swearing silence.

Allegiance.

Protection to this fucking stranger who staggered into their godforsaken piece of shit spot on the map and invested in it, in them , simply to maintain his anonymity during his shady secret scandal.

A scandal that I’m sure he kept quiet not to lose shareholders or investors or other backroom business deals that would’ve never been possible had his face been plastered in the wrong magazines.

Attached to the wrong interviews.

Had history put him in the lying, cheating, prick category instead of the saintly one.

Another mouthful burns its way across my tongue in an attempt to summon solace.

This bastard was far from the upstanding man I looked up to.

What kind of real man goes to the lengths he did to keep this a secret?

To create coverups?

Destroy evidence?

Finnegan, the P.I. Park hired, worked every person possible in that dusty watermelon town, even threatened to have official’s badges and attorney’s disbarred, yet no one would talk.

No one would hand anything over.

Even the fucking town’s public records had been tampered with.

It’s as if the only proof my father and Will Cox were even the same person was the one woman who knew it to be true.

The woman he would eventually knock up.

Have a secret child with.

Abandon, but keep in a comfortable living situation literally until her death.

Something funneled through our company – my fucking company – without my knowledge!

I thought I knew everything we touched.

Handled.

Considered.

All the fine print and the fine print’s fine print and the loopholes.

I didn’t.

I don’t.

And not knowing…knowing he’s the reason for my not knowing…only makes me hate him more.

Which is impressive given how much I hope he’s rotting in hell now.

One final gulp empties the glass and convinces me to visually scour the cluttered room for reinforcements. Despite my somewhat blurry gaze, I do my best to find the tiniest glimmer of hope I haven’t run out of alcohol again.

I’m told our household supply is low; however, I know that’s a lie.

Because that’s what everyone does.

Especially around here.

They lie.

And keep lies.

And create more fucking lies.

Rising to my feet to conduct a more hands on search is not only a terrible call, it’s one that leads to me stumbling into the edge of the desk, knocking all the air out of me. My backward movements have me thumping into the nearest wall and that collision causes me to veer to the side to experience another with the door, ultimately resulting in me cascading to the ground where I sprawl myself out on my stomach.

Mmmm.

This shit feels amazing against my face.

“ Wes…? ” calls out a voice from the other side of the blockade. “ You in there? ”

I think that’s my best friend.

And your best friend is evidently supposed to have your back even in death.

Like Clark apparently.

He knew.

He’s known.

He’s known this entire fucking time and never said a word.

Not. A. Single. Fucking. Word.

How can I ever look at him again the same?

How could he ever look at my father like he once had?

J.T. delivers two sharp knocks prior to investigating, “ You alive? ”

“Relatively,” reverberates off the unclean floor I’m nestled against.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Has anyone been in there today?”

“No.”

“Is anyone allowed in there today?”

I shut my eyes at the same time I grunt, “ No. ”

“You…um…find anything new?”

“Finnegan couldn’t find the doctor who delivered Monica but found the nurse that was on duty for it at a luxury elderly home paid for by Will Cox’s Watermelons , which is a Wilcox company, which is. My. Fucking. Company. ”

“Did she…have…anything to offer?”

“She claimed that she remembered them but that she couldn’t talk about it. All she could say was the same fucking shit Monica’s mother wrote. The holding of her hand. And the pushing her hair out of her face. And holding the newborn like he had his whole world in his hands.”

“W-”

“Where was his old world?” Sneering has my face scraping against the ground. “Were we skiing with his parents? Was mom having cucumber sandwiches alone with royalty? Was I falling off my fucking bike that I was learning to ride forcing his best friend to bandage up my knee?”

“W-”

“ My knee! He couldn’t even help me learn to ride a bike because he was there with her! ”

“W-”

“I spoke to you as a courtesy.” The small breath I suck in is a struggle. “I’m done.”

“But-”

“ Done! ”

When he doesn’t attempt to speak further, I consider getting up to resume my booze search yet find my legs incapable of moving.

Perhaps I’m paralyzed.

Perhaps being disfigured and permanently unable to move would be the appropriate penance for shunning a sibling I never knew.

Denying her access to our resources.

Our reach.

Having her live a partial truth simply because my family refused to live a full one.

She deserves more than the funds that had been deposited into her mother’s account.

More than the hush money that put her through college.

And she wants more.

And she’s gonna get it.

On. Live. Fucking. Television.

All of a sudden there’s a sharp pounding on my office door that shoots my eyes back open. “ Weston fucking Wilcox you open this goddamn door right now! ”

Fuck, she’s loud.

Too loud.

An unexpected hit is delivered to the locked door. “ Now! ”

Too loud and too fucking angry.

“You open this goddamn door and tell me how you could stand me up at the fucking doctor!”

Doctor?

What doctor?

Why was she at the doctor?

“How could you not be there for your child?!”

No.

That’s not right.

That appointment is for…

Well it shouldn’t have been until…

Huh.

What day is it?

What time is it?

“How could you not even answer my fucking phone call?!” Another hit lands on the barrier, although I’m not sure if it’s from her hand or foot. “How could you not text me back?!” More banging. Pounding. “How can you treat me worse as your fiancée than you did when I was a fucking stranger here just to make sure you didn’t kill my mom!?”

Her accusations spark unwanted aches in my head.

Push me to close my eyes.

Squeeze them tight.

“ Stop ignoring me! ” she fiercely screeches between strikes. “ Stop treating me like I’m the fucking problem! ” More flinch worthy noise occurs. “ Stop hiding from me before I’m no longer here to fucking hide from! ”

The tiniest twitch occurs in my lips; however, I remain completely silent.

Perhaps she should go away.

Perhaps that’s what’s best.

Perhaps I’m not the man she thought I was.

Perhaps I’m not the man I thought I was.

Perhaps that’s exactly why all this shit hurts.

Because I’m exactly like the man in these boxes.

A monster.