Page 96 of Oliver
"Earl Grey," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "And I have those shortbread biscuits you always liked."
The casual reference to a childhood preference I'd forgotten threw me off balance. I tried holding on to the rage, but it was impossible in the face of Davidson’s ridiculous composure. So, instead of the heated exchange I’d played through my mind while waiting on the porch, I found myself standing awkwardlyin the kitchen as Davidson prepared two mugs, the domesticity of the scene making my planned aggression feel misplaced.
"Sit," he said once the kettle had whistled, indicating a chair at the small kitchen table.
I sat, partly due to curiosity, but mostly because what else was I supposed to do?
The mug of tea placed before me steamed gently, the familiar scent triggering memories of Sunday school, of sitting in Davidson's office while my parents discussed church matters, of being given biscuits and being told to wait quietly like a good boy.
Davidson eased himself into the chair opposite mine, settling his cane against the table’s edge, arranging his mug and a small plate of biscuits with methodical precision.
"Proceed," he said simply once he was settled, his eyes meeting mine over the rim of his mug.
And somehow, inexplicably, the words poured out. The records I'd discovered, my parents' betrayal, the stolen properties, Emmet's struggles, and the sacrifices I'd made to keep him afloat. My voice grew hoarser as I spoke of working at Foxy's just to scrape by, of losing Alyssa, and of the mounting debt despite my academic success.
And then, without meaning to, I was talking about Zahra. About seeing her again after all these years, about the fake relationship that had become something real, about the way she'd pushed me away just hours ago, history repeating itself in the cruelest way imaginable.
"And now she's going to be at that wedding alone," I said, the reality of the situation hitting me even as the words left my mouth. "With Ryan. With all of them." I stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the linoleum. "I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I need to?—"
"Sit down." The words were a command, but had an edge of pleading to them that made me hesitate. "There's no mistake. You need to hear the truth."
Something in his tone—regret, perhaps, or desperation—made me sink back into my chair.
Davidson sighed, setting down his mug with a soft clunk against the table. "I've been waiting for this conversation for a long time, Oliver. Praying for it, even."
I snorted. "Praying. Right."
"Mock if you must, but even sinners pray." He folded his hands before him, finger pads brushing over wrinkled knuckles. "What do you already know?"
"I know you falsified records to steal my grandparents' estate."
Davidson didn't flinch at the accusation. If anything, he seemed relieved by the directness.
"I did falsify those records." The simple admission stunned me into silence, every last bit of fight leaving me. "I created documents showing you'd refused contact, and that you'd abandoned your role as executor. I instructed my assistant to screen your calls, to return your mail marked undeliverable.”
“And Blessed Heritage LLC?” I asked. “Is it a church owned holding company?”
“Yes,” Davidson whispered. “Your mother framed the sales as ‘honoring her parents’ legacy’ by designating the real estate assets for community purposes. I facilitated the transfer into the holding company, your father oversaw the financial aspect, and Maryam Ansari signed off on the deal."
The calm recitation of his crimes ignited my rage anew. "Why? Was the money that good? Did they pay you enough to sell your soul?"
A flicker of pain crossed his weathered face. "It wasn't about money. It was about legacy, about faith."
"What the hell does faith have to do with theft?"
"Your parents kept talking about God's will." Davidson's gaze dropped to his tea, shame evident in the slump of his shoulders. "Your brother, and your rejection of the church's teachings. They said your grandparents would have wanted their life’s work to serve God, not fund sin."
"So, stealing is fine as long as it’s to serve God?" My voice shook with fury. "That's some convenient theology."
"I was wrong," he said simply. "Catastrophically, unforgivably wrong."
The admission should have been satisfying. Instead, it left me hollow.
"Do you know what it cost me?" I asked, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "What it cost Emmet?"
Davidson nodded, his expression grave. "More than I understood at the time. My wife left me after my stroke, and my children rarely speak to me unless they need something." He gestured to the empty house around us. "I spent six weeks in the hospital. The only visitors I had were the pastor and Maryam, who came to assess if I needed to be replaced."
"I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?"
