Page 173 of My Heart Still Beats
“Your brother’s right, Mr. Black,” Marjorie says.
“So the only answer is to drop all charges against both Conrads and Garrett Ramirez,” Braden says.
“That’s not our call on David Conrad and Garrett Ramirez,” I say. “It’s Tessa’s.”
“She’d probably do it for you,” Braden says.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want her to do it for me. She needs to see justice served.”
He narrows his gaze at me. “Ben…”
“No, Braden. Absolutely not.”
“I agree with you,” my brother says. “Tessa is more important than any stain on our reputations.”
“If that’s all, gentlemen”—Marjorie nods—“I’ll thank you for bringing this to my attention, but frankly I have no choice but to consider the matter closed.”
I rub my temples. “I feel like I should be punished.”
Braden turns to me and raises his eyebrow. “Why? You heard Marjorie. You’re free to go. This is all going to blow over.”
I get to my feet, my heartbeat rising. “I don’twantit to blow over. Because if it does…”
“Then what?” Braden grabs my arm and yanks me back into my seat. “You won’t be good enough for Tessa anyway?”
I blink. That’sexactlywhy.
I bury my face in my hands. “She deserves someone so much better.”
Braden lays his hand on my shoulder. “She deserves someone who loves her. And it’s clear that she’s found that in you, brother.”
I shake my head. “She’ll change her tune when the news breaks about all of this. You can bet your ass that Ramirez and Conrad are going to sell this story to the first shitty tabloid that comes calling.”
“You don’t know that,” Braden says. “Tessa has been through a lot, and you’ve been the one who got her through it. And I’m not just talking about all the shit that went down at her apartment. I mean her father’s death, getting through her initial trauma with that asshole…”
I don’t respond.
Marjorie clears her throat. “If I may,” she says, “there might not be any legal recourse for you to deal with, Ben, but perhaps there is something you can do to alleviate these feelings of guilt.”
I nearly pounce onto the desk. “What is it?”
She shuffles through some paperwork. “It would seem that Mr. McKee, the victim in question, had a daughter.”
I raise an eyebrow. “He did? I thought he had no family, that’s why we got away—”
She raises her hand to quiet me. “I would advise you not to say anything you wouldn’t want held against you in a court of law.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Since he was a detainee of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, we have every scrap of information about him at our disposal. It would seem that shortly before he went to prison, a former girlfriend of his claimed he was the father of her daughter.” She pushes a document to my side of the desk.
I pick it up. On it is a picture of a young girl, no more than four or five years old. “Tascha McKee?” I read.
Marjorie nods. “The mother insisted that the child have his last name, even though she never proved that they were actually related.”
“She didn’t insist on a DNA test?” Braden asks.
“He wouldn’t consent to one,” Marjorie says. “She could have filed a motion to get a court to force him to take one, but by the time that would have gone through, he was already in prison. He wouldn’t have been able to pay child support anyway.”
