His words confirmed it. He knew what I had found. He knew I would look. Perhaps he had even wanted me to.
“My father…” I whispered, the words getting lost in my throat. “He helped you.”
“Yes.” Sterling’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He walked to the barcard and poured a whiskey, a deliberate act of exclusion. “He was an integral part of the Kincaid acquisition.”
The room tilted. The man I had spent years mourning, whose memory I was avenging, was a criminal. A corporate saboteur. Just like me. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.
“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking. My father wasn’t like that. He was a good man. He believed in building things, not…”
“Not destroying them?” Sterling finished for me, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “Your father was a brilliant man, B
