Page 86 of Blame it on the Bet
“What is it?” I ask slowly, not sure this is going to be something I want to hear.
“It’s about Bryan…”
Oh no. I just don’t think I can do this right now. “I’m sorry, King, but I can’t?—”
“Wait, please just hear me out,” he asks, holding up his palms.
I take a deep breath and prepare for the worst. Whatever that could possibly be at this point.
“Something about Bryan’s story didn’t sound right to me, so I decided to do a little digging after he left last week. I made a few calls and got in touch with a reporter friend who goes way back, and he put me in touch with an editor at the Charlotte Courier.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. So far, not so bad.
“This woman covered the whole Broadmore story from first allegations to the trial. Hennessy, she says Bryan didn’t do it. He’s not the one who perpetrated fraud. It was his father.”
“What? How could it be his father?”
“You only got half the story from that Pettit fellow,” King explains “Truitt isn’t Bryan’s real surname. He changed it. After his father, Bryan Broadmore Sr., was sent to prison for making millions off bogus development deals.”
“Bryan is named after his father,” I repeat slowly, trying to process what I’m hearing.
“Here’s the thing, Hennessy,” King says, making certain my eyes are connected to his, “Bryan’s father tried to implicate him. He figured that, at best, the theory would cast doubt on his own guilt, getting him off on reasonable doubt. And, at worst, Bryan had a clean record so they’d go easier on him if he were to be convicted. So, he threw Bryan under the bus.”
“Oh my God,” I murmur, putting a hand over my mouth. “His own father did that?”
King nods solemnly. “There was all this terrible press about Bryan until someone at the Department of Justice followed the money trail and realized that he couldn’t have done it. They dropped the charges against him, but the damage was already done. That’s when he changed his name to Truitt, moved out to the west coast, and cut ties with his family. He never would testify against his father, though, even after all of that.”
“But why would he let me—let us all think he was a scammer?” I ask in disbelief. “Why didn’t he just explain all this?”
King Colby gives me a sad smile.
“Maybe because no one ever gave him the opportunity.”
He goes back inside, leaving me alone with my own thoughts—and my own guilt. Would it have mattered if I’d known this sooner? If I’d given Bryan an opportunity to tell me his side of the story rather than jumping to conclusions? Maybe. Maybe not. And, at this point, I can’t even say for certain that he didn’t orchestrate everything to buy the pub out from under us. Jonathan Pettit hasn’t been permitted to tell us who it was that purchased the property as soon as it went to the bank. For all I know, it might still be Bryan.
What I can say for certain is that I have no intention of staying here and watching someone dismantle my past—whether that person is Bryan Truitt or not. I haven’t told my sisters yet, but I’ll be headed back to St. Paul in a few days. They need to get on with their lives, and I need to get on with mine—whatever it might hold.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
BRYAN
Truittism Number 19: In the event of total catastrophe, Boots-on-Couch can be just as—if not more valuable than— Boots-on-Ground.
The sun is in my eyes. It slips through the crack of space where the blinds end and the windowsill begins, stealthily creeping across the carpeted floor, seeking out the delicate tissue of my eyelids.
Why, why, why haven’t I spent the money on the stupid blackout blinds yet?
I do what I always do—I squeeze my eyes shut against the burning glare. I’m almost back over that line between asleep and awake when I feel a shift in the energy of the room. Someone has come in, very quietly, disturbing the stagnant air around me.
“What is it, Helen?” I mutter hoarsely.
She waits so long to reply that I force myself to open my eyes and look up at her. What I expect to see is her bright red mouth, puckered with disdain. Instead, I see her bright blue eyes, weighted heavily with concern.
“I’m worried about you,” she says at last. “Why aren’t you sleeping at home? You can’t be comfortable here…”
With considerable effort, I drag myself up into a sitting position, coughing and snarfing as I rub my eyes.
“I’m more comfortable here,” I inform her. “Besides, I’ve been working so late, it’s just easier to stay here than drive home.”
