Sweet Heart (The Hearts of Sawyers Bend #2) - Ivy Layne Page 0,30

the heel of his palm. “What's the deal?”

“It's not for you to approve,” Cole said, abrupt and annoyed. Griffen didn't seem to care. For all the reasons he had to hate Ford, Griffen didn't believe he'd killed our father.

“I understand that,” Griffen said, his patience strained. “I know you’re Ford's lawyer, not mine, but you're here so you might as well tell us. What's the deal?”

“She offered ten years with a chance of parole after five. She'll include time served, though that doesn't amount to much.”

“Ten years?” Griffen said, his voice low. Pained.

“It's first-degree murder, Griffen.”

“A murder Ford didn't commit,” I reminded him. “The prosecutor might not care, but you and I both know he didn't do it.”

Cole looked out the window, avoiding both of our gazes. He seemed to sag into the door frame behind him, his voice exhausted when he spoke.

“I told you, it doesn't matter what I know. What I believe. It only matters what I can prove. Ford doesn't have an alibi. Eyewitnesses put him near the Manor at the time of the murder. They found the goddamn murder weapon in his closet. I'd love to get your brother off, especially considering that I don't think he did it. I'm not a fucking magician. Your father is dead. Someone needs to pay for that. The prosecutor isn't going to wait for us to find another suspect when they already have one in jail.”

He straightened, holding his briefcase in front of him like a shield. “Look, I only stopped by out of professional courtesy. Ford already agreed to the deal. The wheels are in motion. There's nothing you can do except show up at the next visiting day.”

Cole strode from the room without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Chapter Thirteen

royal

There’s nothing you can do.

The words rang in my ears. Nothing. Ford was locked up, and he wasn’t getting out. Not for at least five years. Maybe longer. The injustice of it burned in my gut. Ford wasn’t perfect, but he hadn’t killed our father. I knew that without a doubt. If he had, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to hide the murder weapon in his own closet.

Five years in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed while whoever did it ran around free.

Five years.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d been sure we’d get him out of jail. Sure that at the last minute, someone—Sinclair Security, West, Griffen—would find the evidence we were looking for, and they’d have to let Ford go.

I’d never really believed we’d give up, never believed Ford would take the deal.

“Fuck.” I leaned over, bracing my elbows on my knees, sucking in one breath, then another.

The burning in my gut spread to my chest, my head. My vision blurred with tears of rage. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

This wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.

A low sound, almost a growl, came from beside me. I raised my head to see Griffen motionless, staring down at the top of his desk, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles bunched below his ears.

Without warning, he flew from his seat and let out a primal scream, the sound filled with every ounce of his frustration and rage, filled with the helpless fury that had snowballed since the moment we’d learned of Ford’s arrest.

With another bellow of raw emotion, Griffen reached out an arm and swept everything from the desk, sending our laptops and papers crashing to the floor.

He spun around, arms raised, the anger surging through him, needing a target. I understood what he felt on a visceral level, knew the need to let out his fury, the pain of knowing that despite trying our best, our brother would still suffer.

The course of Ford's life had changed when our father had been killed. We’d tried to stop it. We’d failed. We'd failed our brother.

Before I knew it, Griffen was climbing onto the desk. Feet planted on the shiny surface, he lunged at the trophy buck hanging on the wall, grabbed both antlers, and tore it to the ground.

Something broke through my own rage, something clean and pure. The bare spot on the wall was a little bit of my father stripped from the room. It felt right.

I didn't care that technically this was Griffen's office. Griffen's house. It was mine too, and I wanted every reminder of my father gone. I dragged over one of the heavy leather chairs and stood on the arms, reaching up to rip that poor bear's