The scratching sound of William’s pen on the confession paper stopped abruptly. The entire room turned toward the wheelchair in the corner.
Alistair Croft’s head was still slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests. He wasn’t just fighting the paralysis; he was fighting the silence of a lifetime. He inhaled–a ragged, rattling gasp that sounded like a bellows forcing air through a rusted pipe.
“I…” Alistair rasped. The sound was wet and guttural, tearing at his atrophied vocal cords.
Sebastian Cross lowered his coffee cup, his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Croft?”
Alistair lifted his head. The effort made the veins in his neck bulge. He locked his gaze on the Corporate Fixer.
“I am… the architect,” Alistair wheezed, each word a separate battle. “William… is a boy. He knows… nothing.”
He swallowed, his throat clicking audibly. “I am the only one… you want.”
William dropped the pen. “Dad, stop. You can’t survive a trial.”
“There will be… no trial,” Alistair hissed, cutting his son off with a flash of his old, imperious fire. He looked at Cross. “You want a scalp, Mr. Cross? Take the King’s. Leave the pawns alone.”