Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series)

by Bethany Hensel

  What happened the night your father died?”

  DEREK

  Voelkel Avenue is not that far away from where I live, but it takes over an hour to get there from Lucas's place. The parkway is filled with eighteen-wheelers and construction cranes heading into town. Now I know the Li Kang hotel will make like, a billion jobs or something, but man, I have never cursed more at anything in my life than this construction and the traffic it brings. By the time I finally park, I’m vibrating.

  The house is hardly anything at all. It needs a paint job, the porch steps are crooked, and the windows don't have blinds on them. The whole place is like some fishbowl. I scan the windows for any sign of life, and I see him in the second floor. I lean forward and squint my eyes. Can't make out too much. I try Sabrina's cell one last time. No answer. Okay. I take a breath and get out of the car, mentally repeating to settle down and play it cool.

  I knock on the door.

  A few seconds go by and then a guy who looks to be in his early fifties answers the door. Irony is the first word that comes to mind. Here is a guy who lives on 64 Voelkel Avenue (as in Eric Voelkel, center for the Pittsburgh Penguins who wears jersey number sixty-four) and yet, he is decked out, from head to foot, in clothes inspired by Voelkel's archrival, Andre Armstrong. He's wearing the old star athlete's red and white jersey, red sweatpants with the number twelve all over them, and even socks that have the iconic Blackhawks logo on the tops. I'm surprised he's not wearing a sash that says Number One Fan.

  “Uh, hi,” I begin, thrown a bit by the outfit, “are you Martin Grammor?”

  “Why's that?”

  “My name is Derek Archer,” I inwardly grimace; why the hell did I use my real name? “And I was wondering if I could talk to him. About Victor King.”

  The man's eyes narrow and his whole body tenses. “I’m Martin Grammor and I could give a rat's ass about that son of a bitch. Now get outta my face and off my porch!”

  He swings the door shut but I put my hand out.

  “Sir, wait. Please. I'm not here to defend him. I just want to know what he did.”

  “What do you mean, what he did? Who the hell are you?”

  I think fast, remembering the email that he sent to Mr. King. It's then I think of an idea. “The thing is sir, I'm a junior attorney at, uh, Loftus and Gionta, and we're in charge of a huge class action lawsuit. And I just need to ask you a few questions about what happened to you. That's all.”

  “Class action huh? Not surprised, what with the way that asshole was carrying on.” Martin Grammor steps aside and holds the door open. He gestures for me to come in.

  The inside of the house is as bad as the outside. There's garbage everywhere, plates with old food stuck on them, and DVD's all strewn about, none in cases. A TV with a sensor box on top is in the corner. It's like he never got out of the year 2020.

  “Sit down,” he says, pointing to a questionable looking couch. Stuffing is coming out of one arm. But I sit down and Martin sits across from me. On a lawn chair.

  A minute passes. Then another.

  “Well,” Martin suddenly says, “you gonna explain what the hell you're doing in my house or do I have to tap dance?”

  I clear my throat. “Like I was saying, I'm doing research for my law firm. And I just need to ask—”

  “You already said that part. Now come on and ask the damn questions already. Game's on at five and I ain’t missing it just for you.”

  “Okay. Uh, so my first question is how did you come to know Mr. King?”

  “Co-worker. She invested with him just like I did. Must've been, uh, well, let's see. I'm fifty-two right now, and I started investing when I was twenty-four, so you do the math.”

  “Okay. So twenty-eight years. And were you happy with him?”

  “Well, duh. I wouldn't have stayed with him so long if I wasn't.”

  “Right, right,” I nod. “When did things start going bad for you?”

  “When he started lying to me.”

  “Lying about what?”

  “Uh, everything. I mean, it was the whole enchilada. Top to bottom. How he dealt with money, what it was doing, what it wasn't doing.”

  “Can you give me some examples?”

  Martin looks at me funny.

  “What law firm you from again?”

  “Loftus and Gionta.”

  “Yeah? Let me see some credentials.”

  The lie comes smoothly and fast. Maybe too fast. “I don't have any. It's not like attorneys get badges.” I offer up a smile, the good-guy smile, the inside-joke-smile. It doesn't work. Martin Grammor keeps giving me the stink eye and I realize I'm in big shit.

  “Look,” he says, “I think it's time you leave. And if your fancy law firm wants something from me, tell them to put it in writing. I'm done talking to you.”

  “Mr. Grammor, wait.”

  “No,” he says sharply, standing up. He's walking to the door, and I know I have to say something now or lose this chance forever. I stand up.

  “Mr. Grammor, do you own a gun?”

  He turns back, his eyes narrowed to slits, his brow furrowed to a straight line. “What did you just ask me?”

  “I asked if you owned a gun.”

  “What the hell's that got to do with anything? Get outta my house!”

  “You can answer to me or you can answer to the Corps.” I add softly, “Take your pick.”

  Martin doesn't cross the distance between us. He says, “I own a .30-06. And if you don't get your white ass outta my house, I'm gonna use it.”

  A .30-06? I’m not a gun aficionado, but I’ve watched enough D.R. Gibbs movies to know that a .30-06 is a rifle, a very old-fashioned rifle.

  And Victoria’s father was killed with a Sig Sauer.

  The news throws me slightly off balance, but I ask, “Do you have any other firearm?”

  He turns around and grabs the door knob to the front door. “I'm not talking to you anymore. Get out.”

  I walk over to him but don't leave. “I'm going to find out sooner or later. And trust me, I'll find it all. Like I said, you can either tell me or tell the Corps. But I don't think you want to deal with them.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Martin's eyes scan his own email, then glare back at me. His entire face has turned red.

  “Where'd you get that?”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “You hack into my computer?”

  “No. But you can't deny this isn't an email from you. And as you can read, or probably just remember, you threatened Mr. King a week before he died. Threatened to shoot him, as a matter of fact. And guess what?”

  “What do you want?” Mr. Grammor asks. “If you're thinking of blackmailing me, forget it. I didn't kill that son of a bitch. I bet a lot of people wanted to, but I didn't and I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  He grins. “Wasn't in town. Wasn't in town at all that week or the week before or the week before that, as a matter of fact. The U.S. Qualifying was going on, and guess who was there for every game?” He reaches over and picks up a framed ticket from his side table. He holds it up with flourish.

  I blink. God, it’s like taking another left hook to the face. It’s a moment before I can catch my bearings. But then I say, “And you didn't hire anyone to do it?”

  He laughs. “With what money? Didn't you hear me before? Victor fucking King took every red cent I had! Even if I wanted to hire someone to put a bullet in his brain, I would never be able to afford it. I’m just lucky it all worked out that I could go to the games! That was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he almost ruined it!” He coughs and spits out the phlegm. Right on the floor. It takes a lot of will power not to gag.

  “But if you say that Mr. King took your money, how were you able to go to the Qualifiers?”

  A strange little smirk plays on Martin’s face. It sends a chill right through me. “Let’s just say,” he says, “it all worked out in the end. Karma’s a bitch, right?”

  It�
��s like I can suddenly smell the sliminess in the room, the stink of him, his lies, and his bullshit. I ask him one last question: “How do you know it wasn't just you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your money. You went with Mr. King to invest, but stocks are unreliable. They're risky. How do you know it wasn't just your bad luck?"

  Martin smiles at me. He opens the door again. “Kid,” he says, “you gotta lot to learn. Trust me, I didn't lose my own money. I was lied to. Scammed. Cheated. I was deceived. By the looks of it, so were you.”

  VICTORIA

  My fingers are freezing. They shake so badly I can’t tie the drawstring on my pants. My body quivers and sways. I collapse on the ground and curl my knees to my chest.

  Hot. So hot.

  My skin burns, my tongue and throat and hair and soles of my feet. Everything burns.

  I blindly reach out, hoping for fresh hay, a cloth, a chaise lounge on the beach, a mimosa in a cold tall glass. My bed. My covers. My pillow. My house.

  Instead I touch something wet. I open my eyes. Water droplets roll down the wall. It’s raining.

  Thirteen Days Before Victor King’s Death

  (Late Afternoon)

  “Come on!”

  The wind is blowing so fast, it’s like the rain is falling sideways. The huge drops burst with almost audible pops. My umbrella is useless. I throw it behind me and keep running. Derek is beside me. His suit is soaked, his tie is flying around his neck.

  I laugh.

  “We’re almost to the car,” he shouts.

  We hurry up a small embankment and as I approach the top, my high heel slips in the mud. I go down. Tumble, roll, and fall.

  “Victoria!”

  I finally stop at the bottom of the hill. More of me is covered in mud than not. I sit, stunned, looking at my arms and hands and legs and then…I laugh. So full, so loud, it hunches me over. It feels like ages since I’ve laughed like this and it’s wonderful. The sharp knots inside my chest unwind and I can breathe again. Hell, I feel like I can fly.

  Derek stops beside me. I look up at him and can’t quit laughing. And he smiles and throws his head back and laughs too. He extends his hand to me and we’re still laughing. Soon, neither one of us can breathe. Our mouths are just open in wide grins as our shoulders shake with mirth. Tears leak from my eyes. God, I love this! I love this man and this rain and this laughter. Finally!

  Derek takes my hand, and we weave and stumble the rest of the way to his car. We quickly get in and only then are able to take several deep, calming breaths. And then we look at each other and all of a sudden, we’re doubled over again.

  “God,” Derek wheezes out, his teeth gleaming, his grin wide. “I can’t believe you fell like that. Oh my God. I’m glad you’re not hurt but, Jesus…that was so fun—”

  I lean over and press my mouth to his. I can taste the smile on his lips. But then they pucker and move, and he’s kissing me back. I open my mouth and work my tongue on his. Without losing contact, I shift and lean until I’m straddling his hips. I push my fingers into his hair. I rub my tongue harder against his. Like my laughter, intimacy between us has been stilted and strange the last week—it’s been difficult having him touch me; I felt like I was suffocating. But now, having him beneath me, feeling his body heat curl all over me…I shiver with pure delight.

  Derek breaks our kiss on a giant inhale of breath. His eyes are half-lidded and dazed. Mud streaks his left cheekbone and flecks his hair. I smile.

  Wordlessly, I reach down to the hem of my dress. The fabric is heavy and wet with mud. I arch my back and slowly peel it off my body, then toss it on the passenger’s seat. I stroke my stomach and chest with dirty palms, striping myself like a wild cat. I unhook my bra and throw it on my dress.

  Derek is hard, wired and waiting. His eyes lower and go all over me. My body blushes as he reaches out and traces a stripe until it smears. Then he gently touches the pendant hanging between my breasts.

  I whisper, "I said I'd never take it off."

  He leans forward and kisses it.

  My head falls back. It’s easy to feel his musculature and heat and energy through his soaking clothes. My body throbs for him. I reach down and unbuckle and unzip him. I shift our clothes. I rock up then down and then he throws his head back and groans. The sound is loud and wonderful, coming from the base of his chest, bouncing against the windows, and then massaging my entire body from the inside out.

  I kiss him.

  I move with him.

  I open my eyes and watch his lips pull back and his eyes flutter shut and color rise to his cheeks.

  I’ve missed him this way.

  I love him this way.

  I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. I let go. When I finally land, Derek is there to catch me. And for just a moment, locked in his car with the rain falling down, safe and sated in his embrace, I can almost believe everything will be fine.

  DEREK

  The minute I get to my car, I pick up the iBullet. I double-tap again and the pixels spread out. They're too huge now though, so I spread my arms and then move my hands until they're about half a foot apart. I do the same again at the top and bottom. Now the icons fits perfectly between my palms, the images taking up no more space than the steering wheel. I scan the contents, looking for anything else from or about Martin Grammor. I don’t know all the details, but he’s involved somehow. He had the motive. He has a gun. Granted, it was the wrong type, but that doesn’t mean much. He could have a whole arsenal in his basement for all I know. But he had to have killed Victoria’s father. It makes sense. He’s angry, he’s resentful. And he doesn’t seem all that stable.

  But it’s certainly not enough to take to the Corps. I can’t just show them the conclusion. I need to find the way, light the path, and connects the dots on how I got there.

  Victoria’s father was shot. She is being charged though she has no motive.

  William was never looked at twice, though he has money, motive, and means.

  Martin Grammor was broke and pissed. All of a sudden, he could afford a three week vacation to the U.S. Qualifiers.

  Did William hire Grammor?

  I sigh and furrow my brows. That part doesn’t seem right. I mean, I guess William could’ve, but it just doesn’t settle well. Why would he hire such a loose cannon like Grammor? I mean, William is a billionaire, he could’ve hired the best. Hell, he could have hired D.R. Gibbs himself. So why Grammor? Especially when an email could so easily link the two men together.

  And then there’s the fact that the Corps hasn’t given any of this a second glance. That has to be because of William.

  I shift in my seat and take a deep breath. It feels like I’m trying to swallow cotton. The car has passed the point of boiling-over-a-fire-in-a-cast-iron-cauldron-hot, so I roll down my window. As I do, I feel rain drops land on my arm. I roll the window back up and turn on the car and AC.

  William. William is the key to all of this. I feel it in my gut that I’m right. His actions don’t make sense: he comes over the day Victoria and I are swimming and collects Mr. King’s devices. (Or tries to, at least.) William somehow gets them later, but instead of turning them over to the Corps, he hides them.

  Because they showed was something incriminating about him?

  And then later, William and his father meet up at the HYP Club, where it ends in a physical altercation. And even though I clearly have no idea what was said, the meeting resulted in one thing:

  William needed to clean up another mess.

  He needed to kill his father.

  And he needed someone else to take the fall.

  I try Sabrina’s cell again. No answer. I shut my eyes. Five deep breaths later, I dial another number, my body going numb as I hear his voice.

  “Dad,” I say, “that Corps captain, he told me to call him.” I swallow. “What number did he give you?”

  Dad tells me. And I dial.

  VICTORIA

  A soldier enters
my cell. His face is blank, almost bored, as if he’s done this a thousand times. He tells me to follow him, and the two soldiers who come in next make sure I do. They each hold my arms. My feet barely touch the ground as we pass cell doors and head to the elevators. The car seems to shoot down at the speed of light.

  To my surprise, it doesn’t open to any sort of hallway or main lobby. When the doors open, I’m staring at rosebushes too vivid, grass too green, and rain too cold. I’m staring at the courtyard. And the ten men on the opposite side of it, rifles resting at their sides.

  DEREK

  I place my phone on the passenger seat. It rings, but I don’t answer.

  He’d only try to stop me.

  “Derek Archer!”

  Flashing lights shine in my rearview mirror. Two soldiers stand behind the open doors of their car, guns trained on me.

  Life is all about choices. The doors we open when we’re young, the paths we choose to take, are what forms us when we’re older. If only I had gone to that party Friday night. If only I hadn’t. If only I had said no, if only I had said yes. I should’ve taken that class, I should’ve taken this class. I should never have gotten in that car, I’m so glad I took that ride. I should’ve, I would’ve, I can’t, I won’t...I never tried.

  “Get out of the car now!”

  Life is all about choices. I think of my choices now. I think of my choices leading up to it. And while I don’t question any of the decisions I made, I can’t help but let my mind wander over the roads not traveled, past the ultimate what-ifs.

  “Put your hands up. Derek Archer, do it now!”

  At the end of one path, I see my parents, my career, Sabrina. At the end of another, I see Victoria, the apartment, our life together. But the funny thing is, neither image lasts.