Chapter 17 - The Diner on High Street
The booth in the back corner of the diner was dimly lit, smelling of stale coffee and bacon grease.
Abigail sat facing the wall, wearing an oversized trench coat and dark sunglasses indoors.
When Marcus and I slid into the booth opposite her, she flinched visibly.
Her manicured nails were bitten down, and the designer veneer she had worn like armor had completely cracked.
"Here," she whispered, sliding a silver thumb drive across the Formica tabletop.
Marcus didn't touch it immediately; he slipped it into an anti-static evidence pouch.
"What’s on this, Abigail?" I asked.
"The correspondence from the night of the hit-and-run two years ago," she confessed, her voice barely audible.
"Austin was driving Julian’s company car. Julian told Austin that if he took the fall, his career was dead."
My blood ran icy cold in my veins.
"So Julian suggested they pin the vehicular manslaughter and the financial loss on me."
Abigail nodded, tears spilling beneath her sunglasses.
"Julian had contacts in the precinct. They switched the field sobriety reports and altered the security camera footage outside the gala."
"You knew this," I said, my voice dangerously calm.
"You sat in my grandmother’s house, ate my grandmother’s food, and sneered at me when I returned from prison."
"I was scared of Julian!" she cried softly.
"You were selfish," I corrected her.
"You traded two years of my freedom for invitations to charity galas."
Marcus zipped the pouch shut.
"This evidence goes straight to the State Attorney General’s Special Investigations Unit tonight."
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"What about me?" Abigail pleaded.
"You hire a criminal defense lawyer, Abigail," I said, standing up. "Because mercy is not on the menu."
