Page 98 of Oliver
Davidson's eyes twinkled with a light I hadn't seen since entering his home. "I have a way we can get it all back."
"All of it?" I was beyond skeptical.
"You want your inheritance restored. You want your brother's future secured." He ticked off points on his fingers. "You want Zahra to be safe from Ryan. And, unless I'm mistaken, you want her back."
My throat tightened at the direct assessment. "And what do you want?"
"Redemption." The word hung in the air between us. "A chance to make right what I helped make wrong."
"How?"
Davidson reached into a drawer beside him, pulling out a notary stamp and a legal pad. "I have insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Irrefutable proof of misconduct, undue influence on a vulnerable elderly, and the entire plan to strip you and your brother of your rights."
"Why did you keep information that implicates you?"
“Because I don’t trust anyone but myself, Oliver.” Davidson frowned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And in a way, it should have been. I’d been living my life with the same base assumption.
My mind raced, the silence of Davidson’s empty household suddenly too loud, ringing in my ears like a warning bell.
The inheritance, the properties, the money—it all felt hollow now compared to what I might lose. TowhoI might lose.
"They'll fight back. They'll say you're delusional—that the stroke affected your mind."
"They'll try." He nodded. "But I've prepared for that. My evidence is ironclad."
The methodical way he spoke of his own self-preservation should have been chilling. Instead, I found it oddly reassuring.Davidson might be seeking redemption, but he wasn't naive. He wasn’t innocent. Even his salvation was a tangled web of betrayal and deceit.
"What aren’t you telling me, Davidson?" I asked.
Davidson's gaze dropped, age spots dotting the hands that had once seemed so powerful to my young eyes.
"I'm dying." He said it simply, without drama. "Pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe less. And I'd like to meet my Maker with at least one great sin addressed, if not atoned for."
The confession silenced me. I didn't know how to respond—whether to offer sympathy, whether to question if this was another manipulation. In the end, I said nothing, watching as he continued to write, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the kitchen.
"Here's what we're going to do." Davidson slid the legal pad toward me. "You’re going to lawyer up first thing tomorrow morning, and they’ll file this ASAP. The court will freeze all related assets pending further investigation, and we’ll move forward from there."
I scanned the document, legal jargon dense, but the intent clear. "This will work?"
"Eventually, though it might take some time." Davidson reached for his notary stamp. "And all you need is my signature."
After years of struggle and sacrifice, the simplicity of it seemed almost absurd.
"What about Zahra?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. "They’ll ruin her if I move forward with the lawsuit."
A hint of the old Davidson—the cunning legal mind behind the gentle demeanor—glinted in his eyes. "That, my boy, depends on what exactly you're willing to risk to keep her safe."
"Everything," I said without hesitation. "Anything."
"Then perhaps we should discuss a different kind of strategy." Davidson leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the walls might be listening. "One that ensures long-term safety for everyone you care about."
Hope, unwelcome and dangerous, flickered to life in my chest.
“And I suggest you choose wisely, Oliver, because whichever path you end up walking down, there’s no turning back once you take that first step.”
