Chapter 8

Lucy's POV

I arrive at the Starbucks on 42nd Street seventeen minutes early, which is ridiculous. I tell myself it's strategic—get a corner table, control the sightlines, maintain the high ground. But the truth is I've been awake since 4 AM, running through every possible scenario in my head, trying to predict Quinn's angle.

He's using your mother to manipulate you. This is exactly what he did with Diana—identified your weak spot and exploited it.

I order a black coffee I don't want and claim a table near the back, positioning myself so I can see both entrances. The morning rush is thinning out, leaving mostly remote workers hunched over laptops and a few tourists consulting maps. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that I'm about to potentially unlock the truth that destroyed my family.

My phone buzzes. Ethan: I'm across the street. Northeast corner. Gray coat. Don't acknowledge me unless you need me.

I don't respond, but something in my chest loosens fractionally. The fact that he's already in position, that he kept his word about maintaining distance while still being close enough to intervene—it shouldn't matter. But it does.

At 11:58, Quinn walks in. He's wearing a different expensive suit, carrying a leather messenger bag that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His eyes scan the room until they find me, and for a second—just a flash—I see genuine nervousness cross his face before he schools it into that familiar earnest expression.

He slides into the chair across from me without asking permission. "Thank you for coming. I know you didn't have to."

"You have ten minutes." I don't touch my coffee. "Start talking."

Quinn reaches into his bag and pulls out a manila folder, setting it carefully on the table between us. "I've been going through old case files for MindEase—we're developing an AI ethics protocol, and I needed historical precedents for patient confidentiality violations. Your mother's case kept coming up as a cautionary example."

The casual way he says your mother's case makes my teeth clench, but I force myself to stay silent.

"I requested the full court transcripts from Columbia's legal archive." He opens the folder, revealing photocopied pages covered in legal jargon. "And I found something. Three separate depositions that directly contradict each other about the timeline of events."

He slides a page toward me. I don't pick it up, scanning the text from where I sit. It's a sworn statement from someone named Dr. Patricia Chapman, claiming she witnessed my mother's final session with the patient who later died by suicide. The date stamp reads March 15, 2025.

"So?" My voice comes out harder than I intend. "One witness got the date wrong. That happens."

"Except Dr. Chapman's deposition was the foundation of the prosecution's case. They used her testimony to establish that your mother violated protocol by conducting an unsupervised session." Quinn pulls out another page. "But look at this—the hospital sign-in logs from that day. Dr. Chen wasn't even in the building on March 15th. She was at a conference in Boston. There are hotel receipts, flight records, everything."

The words blur slightly as I force myself to read them. He's right. The dates don't match. Dr. Chapman couldn't have witnessed a session she wasn't present for.

"Why would she lie?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

Quinn leans forward, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—something expensive and unfamiliar, probably chosen by Diana. "That's what I've been trying to figure out. I pulled Dr. Chapman's financial records from the time period. Three days after she gave her deposition, she received a $75,000 'consulting fee' from Lawson Mental Health Ventures."

Diana's family fund.

The coffee in my stomach turns to acid. "You're saying Diana's family paid someone to commit perjury?"

"I'm saying the timeline doesn't add up, and there's a clear financial incentive for Dr. Chen to lie." Quinn's voice drops lower. "Lucy, I think your mother was set up. I think someone wanted her license revoked and was willing to pay for false testimony to make it happen."

My hands are shaking now. I clench them into fists under the table, digging my nails into my palms hard enough to hurt. "Why would Diana's family care about destroying a Columbia psychology professor?"

"Perhaps it's because your mother discovered something?" Quinn's expression shifts—still earnest, but with an edge of calculation I recognize too well. "That's where it gets complicated. I need access to sealed records to dig deeper, and that requires resources I don't currently have."

There it is.

"How much?" I ask flatly.

"I'm not asking you for money, Lucy." He reaches across the table like he might take my hand, then seems to think better of it. "I'm asking for your help. Your therapeutic framework—the emotional regulation protocols you developed. MindEase is struggling, and if I could integrate your methodology into our platform, it would stabilize our funding. Then I'd have the resources to properly investigate your mother's case."

The audacity of it takes my breath away. He's not even pretending this is purely altruistic anymore.

"So you want me to hand over my intellectual property in exchange for maybe investigating evidence you claim to have found." My voice is ice. "That's the offer?"

"Lucy, please—" His voice takes on that wounded quality that used to make me want to comfort him. Now I just hear the manipulation underneath. "I know I don't deserve your trust. I know I chose wrong with Diana. But this is real. Your mother's case has holes in it that shouldn't exist. Don't you want to know the truth?"

Of course I want to know the truth. But I'm not stupid enough to believe you're offering it out of guilt or love.

"Email me copies of everything you have," I say, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "I'll verify the timeline discrepancies independently. If they're real, I'll find my own way to investigate."

Quinn's expression flickers—disappointment mixed with something harder. "Your own way? Lucy, do you have any idea how expensive it is to challenge a sealed case? You'd need tens of thousands just for the preliminary motions—"

"I said I'll find a way." I stand, gathering my bag. "We're done here, Quinn."

His hand shoots out, catching my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough that I freeze. Muscle memory from all the times his touch shifted from affection to control.

"Let go of me. Now."I said irritably.

He releases me immediately, but doesn't back down. "I'm trying to help you. Why can't you see that? I still—" He stops himself, but I can see the words forming. I still love you.

"Don't." I cut him off before he can finish. "Don't you dare use that word. You chose Diana's money over five years of us. You don't get to use my mother's destroyed reputation to buy your way back into my life."

"That's not what this is—"

"Yes, it is." I pull the folder toward me. "Email me the files. All of them. And then stay away from me, Quinn. I mean it."

I'm halfway to the door when he calls after me, just loud enough to make several people look up.

"I made mistakes, Lucy. But I never stopped caring about you. And I never stopped believing your mother was innocent."

The words are designed to stop me. To make me turn around, to give him one more chance to reel me back in. But I keep walking, the folder clutched against my chest, and I don't look back.