Page 79 of The Arrangement

"You see nothing, Sebastian,” he spat, his eyes wide as he pushed a finger into my chest. "You see nothing that I do not show you myself! You are just like your stupid father, unable to see opportunity in front of them.”

That made me pause; my hands that had just been clenched into fists released at the shock of his words. My grandfather never spoke about my father, ever. He had always told me he refused to talk about filth. But there was something behind the heaving, pooling rage that was now my grandfather.

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" My voice didn't sound like my own; it was deep and thready like it was being pulled from my throat.

A laugh. A bark of a cruel cold laugh, "Your father was given an opportunity, Sebastian, to get himself out of the mud and oil that he thought was good enough for the Quinn family. And he spat in my face!"

I was shaking. "My father left us for another family. He was embezzling from his work. He was married to someone else.” My grandfather's face split into a cruel smile as he threw his head back. "Just another deadbeat who would say anything and sign whatever we sat in front of him for a few thousand dollars and a paid-off house. He could have raised you from the shackle of poverty and done what needed to be done, but your piss-poor father couldn't see behind the blinds of his own stupid morals."

I blacked out, and when I came to, I was shaking my fist out as my split knuckles dripped blood on the expensive carpet.

My grandfather had been pushed back several paces, his lip split and swearing. He hadn't even had the chance to yell for his secretary when the tall, wooden doors burst open, and at least eight uniformed officers spilled into the expansive office.

It was Fletcher whom I recognized first, his dark hair pushed back away from his face, and his jaw clenched. His eyes flickered to me, and I nodded, rubbing the blood from my knuckles on my pants. Thelook on my grandfather's face would forever be etched in my memory, the look of astonishment as I unbuttoned my shirt to reveal the small recording device, which I handed over to my old college roommate, never letting my eyes leave his quickly paling wizened face.

"Charles Edward Quinn, you are under arrest by order of the U.S. Marshals pursuant to Title 18, United States Code, Section 1956. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law."

The place was dimly lit,the dive bar slow on a Tuesday night save for an older man playing a solitary game of darts across the way.

Fletcher returned, setting two glasses down on the slightly sticky table along with a manila envelope. I raised my gaze from where my thumb nail had been picking at a splinter in the old wood. It had been hours at the station, explaining everything. Giving over the piles of evidence I had been compiling over the last few nights instead of sleeping.

"You need this more than I do," Fletcher sighed, pushing the beer towards me with a tired but satisfied expression on his face. He motioned to the envelope that I was eyeing with trepidation. I knew what was in it but I couldn't bring myself to open it.

It had been over twenty years.

"Open it, man," insisted Fletcher, sensing my hesitation. Fingering the file, I took a deep, fortifying gulp of the liquid first.

As soon as I slipped the documents out, I was met with a photo of myself, older, with deeper lines and a lighter shade of hair. But my face, my nose, my lips. I swallowed hard around the emotions swelling up. I had never even tried to look up my father; all I knew was that he abandoned my mother and sister.

I didn't have time to mourn him because I was too busy mourning my mother and trying to help my sister through her grief; he was the one who had abandoned us, so he became a placeholder for all myrage. But there he was, suspended in a photograph with the lines of the minimal security prison just an hour's drive away.

"There's sufficient evidence that Charles Quinn falsified documentation to have your father arrested." Fletcher paused, his finger trailing through the ring of condensation on the table before he continued, as if he was struggling to find the right words. "The trail of corruption is vast, Seb. But I don't need to preach to you—it's all in the file. The D.A. is already investigating. Whether or not you want to keep updated is up to you."

I swallowed before pushing the documents back into the folder. I couldn't go through it here. I refused to go through my family's dirty laundry in public.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I forced myself to look up at Fletcher's exhausted face, knowing that it was a mirror of my own. "You dig this up for me?"

Fletcher shrugged. "What are friends for, or whatever."

Silence passed over us, interrupted only by the droning of soft rock over the bass-blown speakers. Fletcher stretched his arms over his head with a tired sigh. "What's going to happen to the company?" he asked finally, exhaustion etched on his features.

"My Uncle Harry is coming in from New York. He was already the COO, so he'll be taking care of this mess."

Fletcher nodded approvingly, "You staying with it? I know you've had your license for a while." I shook my head before I realized it, a weight lifting from my shoulders with the action.

"I don't want that blood money. The only reason I took a job with Charles was to help my sister and to pay off my debt to him. To mitigate any attention off of her by just keeping him happy." I grinned wolfishly. "Besides, I have enough money that I've invested over the past six years to be…comfortable."

Fletcher chuckled, then looked thoughtful. "So, whatever happened with Georgia?"

My eyebrows pinched together as I regarded my friend. "Honestly, I don't know."

"Have you talked to her?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

Leaning forward, I drained the remaining liquid from my mug before countering, "What about you and Sarah? What happened there?"

Fletcher winced, the smudges under his eyes seeming darker than moments before. "I like her. A lot." He hesitated before continuing carefully, "It doesn't seem fair. When I know more about her than she does about me."

Pulling a face, I dug out a few bills to toss on the table. "What the fuck does that mean?"

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