The hostess seats me at the table Ezra selected when he made the reservation—center of the dining room, maximum visibility, the position where important conversations happenunder the guise of casual meals. He chose this deliberately. He wants witnesses to see how reasonable he's being, how concerned, how appropriate.
I settle into my chair, aware that somewhere behind me, Jax is watching. I can't see him—turning to look would be obvious, would signal that I'm not here alone—but I feel his presence like a hand at my back. Steadying. Protective. The knowledge that he's monitoring the recording device, that Solange has positioned herself with clear sightlines, that I'm not actually isolated despite appearances.
The necklace sits heavier against my skin. Jax's fingers fastening it yesterday before I later removed it, the careful way he stood behind me, the warmth of his hands at my neck. The memory feels like armor now. Like I'm carrying him with me even though we're separated by twenty feet and a crowd of strangers.
"You're probably wondering why I wanted to meet." Ezra settles across from me, arranging himself with the same controlled precision Gabriel used. The Pope family clearly teaches posture as power. "I've been worried about you."
The server appears before I can respond. We place an order—wine for him, water for me, entrees I won't taste because my throat is too constricted for food. The ritual buys me time to calibrate my response.
"Worried?" I keep my tone neutral, interested but not defensive. "Why?"
"Because you're alone, Lana. Gabriel's gone, and you're navigating complicated estate matters without family support." He leans forward, and the gesture reads as intimacy to anyone watching. Concerned brother-in-law offering assistance. "That's not right. Gabriel would want me to look after you."
The words are gasoline on a fire I'm trying to contain.Gabriel would want. As if Gabriel's wants should govern my life even after death. As if five years of being controlled by what Gabriel wanted wasn't enough, and now his brother expects me to accept governance by proxy.
"I'm managing." Two words. Firm without being hostile.
"Are you?" His tone shifts, becomes slightly harder. "Because Malcolm mentioned some... irregularities. With the estate distribution. I'm not accusing you of anything," he adds quickly, palms up in a gesture of reasonableness. "But there are questions that need answers. For both our sakes."
Here it comes. The reason for this performance.
"What kind of questions?"
Ezra accepts his wine from the server, takes a measured sip before answering. Every movement is calculated. Every pause is designed to make me more uncomfortable. "Gabriel's will was updated two years into your marriage. Everything to you, no contingencies, no protections for family. That's... unusual. Especially given that Gabriel had indicated to me he was considering changes."
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. "What kind of changes?"
"He didn't specify. But in our last conversation—two weeks before he died—he mentioned being concerned about the marriage. About your stability." Ezra sets down his wine glass with precise care. "He said you'd been acting erratically. Changing routines, being secretive, showing signs of instability he found alarming."
The accusation is wrapped in concern, packaged as brotherly worry. But the implication is clear: I was unstable, Gabriel knew it, and his death was convenient timing.
"Gabriel monitored everything I did." The words come out harder than I intend. I force my voice to soften, to sound less defensive. "If he found my desire for privacy alarming, that says more about his need for control than my stability."
Ezra's eyebrows rise fractionally. Surprise, maybe, that I'm not immediately apologizing or explaining. "You're saying Gabriel was controlling."
"I'm saying our marriage had challenges. Like many marriages do." I pick up my water glass, use the action to buy time. The ice clinks softly. "But those challenges don't invalidate the will. Gabriel made his choices. Legally documented choices."
"Choices made under what circumstances, though?" He's shifting now, moving from concern to something sharper. "You were the beneficiary. You had motive. And that night—the storm, the cliffs, the convenient fall—"
"There was nothing convenient about my husband's death." I set down the glass with enough force that water sloshes slightly. Controlled anger, the kind that reads as grief to observers. "I called 911 immediately. I cooperated fully with the investigation. The police ruled it accidental."
"The police ruled it accidental because there wasn't enough evidence to prove otherwise." Ezra leans back, and his posture shifts from concerned to assessing. "But Lana, we both know what probably happened. A fight. You defending yourself. Gabriel going over that railing because you pushed him. Self-defense, not murder. I understand that."
The trap is elegant. He's offering me an out—admit I pushed Gabriel, frame it as self-defense, accept his understanding. Except admitting I pushed him gives him exactly what he needs to challenge the estate. Self-defense still means I caused Gabriel's death. And causing death while beingthe primary beneficiary creates enough doubt to invalidate inheritance.
"I don't know what happened." The truth, stripped bare. "I remember the fight. I remember Gabriel grabbing me, shaking me, threatening me. I remember being terrified. And then I remember him falling. But the exact sequence—whether he slipped, whether I pushed, whether I was trying to save him or defend myself—" My voice cracks authentically. "I don't remember. The trauma fragmented everything."
Ezra studies me for a long moment. I can see him calculating, weighing whether my uncertainty is genuine or performance. Finally: "Trauma. Of course. How convenient that your memory fails at the exact moment that would determine culpability."
"Trauma isn't convenient." I meet his eyes. "It's hell. Living with gaps in your memory, not knowing whether you killed someone or tried to save them, carrying guilt for something you can't even confirm you did—that's not convenience. That's punishment."
"Or it's a very good story." His tone has lost all pretense of warmth. "You're a smart woman, Lana. Smart enough to know that claiming memory gaps is the perfect defense. Can't be charged with what you can't remember. Can't be questioned effectively about events you've conveniently forgotten."
The accusation hangs between us. Around us, Marconi's continues its expensive hum—other diners enjoying meals, servers moving with practiced efficiency, the clink of silverware on porcelain. Normal people having normal lunches. We're performing the same normalcy while conducting psychological warfare.
"What do you want, Ezra?" I abandon the performance of pleasantry. "You didn't invite me to lunch to express concern. You want something. Tell me what it is."
He smiles, and the expression is all calculation, no warmth. "I want what's fair. Gabriel was my brother. His estate should provide for his family, not just the wife who may or may not have killed him. I'm not being unreasonable—I'm simply suggesting that the estate be divided more equitably. Some to you, some to me, some to charity in Gabriel's name. That seems fair, doesn't it?"
