He’s protecting us. They’re all protecting us.
Marjorie Kemp had disappeared at some point during the chaos. A few other people looked like they wanted to leave but didn’t dare fucking move.
Most people just looked... accepting.
“Congratulations,” Indie said dryly from the booth. “Now can we get back to celebrating the fact that Simon’s not going to prison?”
The tension broke.
Laughter rippled through the diner, conversations resuming, the noise level rising again. My arms loosened around Simon, but I didn’t let go completely. My hand slid down to lace with his, my grip tight.
Mine. He’s mine. And everyone knows it now.
“You okay?” Simon asked quietly.
I looked at him, my eyes still wild but clearer now. “No,” Isaid honestly. “But I will be.”
We will be.
Simon squeezed my hand. “We will be.”
I nodded, my throat working.
This is real. This is happening. I just came out to my entire club, to this entire fucking town, and no one’s trying to kill us.
Julia would be proud.
The thought hit me out of nowhere, and I had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat.
She’d be so fucking proud.
Then the diner door slammed open with enough force to rattle the windows. Nav stood in the doorway, his face flushed and his eyes bright with urgency.
“I found it,” he said, cutting through the crowd. “I fucking found it.”
King straightened. “Found what?”
“The connection,” Nav said, striding toward us. He met us in the back corner of the diner. “Between Rosalind Winthrop and Alan Sanders. I know why she prosecuted Simon. I knoweverything.”
My heart stuttered and my hand tightened on Simon’s.
Nav bent over the table as he pulled pages from a manilla folder. His eyes locked on my hand clasped tightly with Simon’s, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
What the fuck—
He looked up and searched the faces around us, settling on Gunner. “You were supposed to fucking wait.”
Gunner shrugged and pulled Haizley against his side.
Nav turned back to Simon and me, and grinned. “About fucking time, brother.”
Simon chuckled, and I rolled my eyes. “Fuck you. What did you find?” I demanded.
“Alan Sanders’ adoption. I’ve been digging into it since you asked me to, and something wasn’t adding up. The records were too clean. Too perfect. So I kept digging.”
“And?” King prompted.
“Alan’s father, Joseph Sanders, was a lawyer in Peekskill, New York,” Nav said, flipping open the folder. “His mentor was a man named Harland Winthrop.”