Proven Guilty (Treadmill III)

XVIII

Nothing like money to get people to do things they vowed they would never do.

I had vowed never to return to the United States. But $15 million was enough to get my ass on a plane and headed back to the same place where every heinous memory of mine originated.

Do you remember a specific quote from my initial trial, the one where I had already confessed to being a murderer, but also...that I did it in self-defense, in a way? Elizabeth Wilcox, the widow of my dearly departed ex-boyfriend, was put on the stand.

"Mrs. Wilcox, what was dictated in the final version of your late husband's will?"

"Half of his estate was left to me. Half of it was left to Kennedy Abrams."

A doozy of a revelation that never ended up going anywhere. Because I didn't want Hank's money. I didn't want Hank to be burning in hell and know that he was helping me in any way. So, Brianne did something and my cut of the will went back to Elizabeth. I never thought about it again.

Until I got a phone call out of the blue from a lawyer in Tampa, Florida, letting me know that I was needed there. Elizabeth Wilcox had passed, and she had willed all of the money Hank left for her—and me—to me.

Every. Cent.

I don't know if her motives were good-hearted or malicious. In fact, I don't think I'll ever know what her exact motives were for leaving me $14.87 million. Was she thinking of Kennedy Abrams, the woman whom her husband stalked and extorted, and emotionally abused? Was she thinking of Kennedy Abrams, the woman who was sleeping with her husband for months without remorse? Or was she thinking of Kennedy Abrams, the woman who killed her cheating, abusive husband, leaving her all alone with no next of kin or close family whatsoever?

Such complicated feelings between myself and Elizabeth Wilcox.

The executor of her will, a Mr. Lawrence Bailey, had informed me that the money would be directed to my father if I didn't accept it.

I don't think Elizabeth Wilcox knew my father. I think she wanted to ensure I didn't decline the money, like I did eight years previous.

I had to go back to the United States to make sure that this was all legitimate, and that there were no hidden clauses or conditions to this money that Mr. Bailey was hiding from me.

And to see Rebecca, of course.

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30 years old.

It didn't feel old, but Kennedy supposed that she should feel old, if the movies she had watched as a teenager were any indication. Turning 30 was this huge deal, and everyone cried about it and had a five-years-post-quarter-life crisis about it. But for someone who had spent the first part of her twenties doing everything she could to just stay alive and out of jail, turning 30 felt like a breath of fresh air. A new start to a new chapter, with all of the shit left behind. Hank Wilcox had never known Kennedy in her thirties, and he never would.

One thing Kennedy hadn't expected was that she would be spending her thirtieth birthday on a plane to the place she had vowed never to return to. Eight years of avoiding her home like the plague, and she was spending a milestone birthday heading right back.

Two hours into an eleven-and-a-half-hour flight. Her laptop was open on the tray table, the blank Microsoft Word page mocking her. The document title was 'Book Notes.' It was a book about her own life, and she couldn't think of a single thing to write on that page. The page had been open since the flight attendant announced they could use large electronic devices again. The screen had tried to go to sleep 24 times, but Kennedy kept turning it back on. She needed the page to continue shaming her if she had any hope of thinking up this book.

Title, Kennedy thought, I can think of a title. That's a good first step.

She changed the format to a bulleted list and began typing whatever came to her mind.

· Getting Away with Murder: The Kennedy Abrams Story

· A Lesson in Trusting Absolutely No One

· Making a Fake Influencer and Becoming a Killer

· Drew Parley: The Beginning of the End

· The Trial(s) of the Century

Kennedy rolled her eyes at herself. Half of the titles were essentially admitting to murder, and the rest of them were boring as hell. No one would pick up a book called The Trial(s) of the Century. It sounded like something you were assigned to read in a pre-law class.

Kennedy leaned back in her seat and stared at the five bullet points. She thought about everything she wanted the book to say that hadn't already been said by the news and reporters and bloggers over the past decade.

Her thoughts. She wanted the book to give the world her thoughts.

By the time the plane landed at GSP, nine hours later, Kennedy had over a dozen pages of notes and ideas for her book. And her head was still buzzing with so much more.

She hadn't realized how much she had left unsaid.

A/N: It's a short chapter, but hopefully you're excited to see Kennedy's book :)