Page 139 of Matlock
The name hit like a punch to the gut.
Winthrop.
“Rosalind’s father,” I said, my voice flat.
Of course. Of fucking course.
“Exactly,” Nav said. “Harland Winthrop was a prominent lawyer in Peekskill. Joseph Sanders worked under him for years. And in 1996, Rosalind Winthrop had a baby.”
The noise in the diner dimmed as I focused on what Nav had found.
“She was sixteen,” Nav continued. “There’s no record of who the father was. No name on any documents. But Joseph and Elaine Sanders were listed as the parents on the birth certificate.”
No.
Oh fuck.
“Wait,” Simon said, his mind clearly racing. “Are you saying—”
“Alan Sanders was Rosalind Winthrop’s biological son,” Nav said. “The adoption was never filed legally. Joseph Sanders falsified the birth certificate, putting himself and his wife down as the parents. There’s no official adoption record because it never happened.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathed.
Her son. Alan was her fucking son.
And Sadie killed him.
And I defended the man who took the fall for it.
“How do you know this if there’s no legal record?” King asked, his voice sharp.
Nav’s expression turned smug. “Because I know what the fuck I’m doing. I found discrepancies in the birth records, timestamps that didn’t match, signatures that were forged, hospital records that contradicted the official documents. It took me weeks to piece it together, but it’s all here.”
He spread the documents across the table, birth certificates, hospital records, legal filings, all marked with highlighted sections and handwritten notes.
“Rosalind gave up her son,” Nav said. “And Joseph Sanders, her father’s protégé, took him and raised him as his own. Illegally.”
“And then my sister killed him,” Simon said slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “Rosalind wasn’t prosecuting me because she thought I was guilty. She was prosecuting me because—”
“Because you took her son from her,” I finished, my voice hollow. I wrapped my arm around Simon without thinking, without fear, and pulled him against me. “Even if he was a piece of shit. Even if he deserved what he got. He was still hers.”
The weight of it settled over us like a shroud.
Rosalind’s vendetta. Her viciousness. The way she’d twisted the narrative, painting Simon as a monster.
It wasn’t about justice.
It was about revenge.
“She wanted someone to pay,” Simon said quietly. “And I was the easiest target.”
“She wanted you to suffer the way she was suffering,” I said, my jaw tight. “She wanted to destroy you.”
And she almost fucking succeeded.
“Well, she failed,” Gunner said, his voice hard. “Simon’s free. And now we know the truth.”
“What do we do with this?” Cash asked, looking at King.
