Page 112 of The Bad Boy Rule

So that’s the reason I’m here today. I saw online that my parents are in Baton Rouge, visiting my father’s best friend, who’s a coach at LSU, which gives me the perfect opportunity to see what I can find. There has to be something, anything, that will implicate him enough so that we can use it to expose what he’s done.

I’m doing this for Saint.

I’mchoosinghim.

Over my own family… and I would do it again in a heartbeat. Without another thought.

After what happened over the weekend at the gala, I haven’t once heard from my parents. They never called to check on me, to see if I was okay, to apologize for everything that happened. Not even a text. I didn’t expect them to. I think it’s pretty obvious at this point that they care about themselves and the Rousseau name more than they ever cared about me.

And that… hurts.

Because at the end of the day, they’re still my parents.

The inside of the house is quiet as I walk through the hallway, aside from the sound of the air-conditioning blowing at full blast, toward my father’s office.

A room that he’s kept locked since I was a kid. I’ve always known where the spare key is, but until today, I never reallyhad a reason to use it. I stop at the large cabinet at the end of the hallway, where he keeps his scotch on display, and slide the antique door open gently, reaching to the very back, beneath the cheapest bottle. I feel the cool metal of the key beneath my fingers, and a smile flits to my lips.

Obviously, some things never change.

After shutting the cabinet, I walk to the office door and blow out a breath.

I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find. I have no plan, no clue where to even start. I know there’s a chance that I might not even find anything at all. My dad might not have done anything illegal—maybe it’s just something shitty—but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

It’s been churning inside of me, and I just… had to see for myself.

I have to try.

My hand trembles as I slip the old, worn skeleton key into the lock and turn it. There’s a soft click, and then the heavy wooden door creaks open, pulling a relieved sigh with it.

His office hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. Dark, heavy oak furniture, walls lined with shelves of books that are accumulating dust from never being used. A large desk sits in the middle of the room, with my father’s desktop in the center, completely clean of any papers or clutter.

I round the desk in a hurry, starting with the drawers, wrenching one open at a time and sifting through the contents inside. One is full of pens and office supplies. Paper clips, stapler. A checkbook with Rousseau Enterprises stamped along the top. The next, a stack of old-school ledgers, the pages worn with faded ink that I can hardly make out.

I scan the pages, but God, I don’t even really know what I’m looking for.

I drop the book back into the drawer and move on to the next, going through them all and coming up empty. There’s nothing here.

Jesus, Lennon, what did you expect? Him to leave some kind of bullet-point manifesto just lying around on his desk?

Get a grip.

My gaze flicks around to the computer and the black screen staring back at me.

Realization dawns on me as I toss the last stack of papers back into the drawer.

Whywouldhe leave a paper trail? He wouldn’t just leave evidence of his wrongdoings lying around.

Duh. That would be stupid, reckless. And my father may be shady, but he’s certainly not stupid.

I yank the office chair out and drop down into it as I reach for the mouse, shaking it to wake the computer up.

Completely unsurprisingly, his screen saver is a photo of his most prized possession: his boat.

Rolling my eyes, I click on the password box, my fingers hovering over the keys.

I tap out my mom’s name.

Wrong.

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