“You don’t think Duvall somehow pulled him in?”
“Maybe. But the question is why. That’s the one thing I want to figure out before I jump. Duvall knows you’re back now, and the escalation he expected didn’t happen. So I’m running out of time.”
“Sometimes you don’t know why people in this world do the things they do, Ridge. You have the big answers, doesn’t that matter?”
I exhale slowly. “It might be something I never get a clean answer for.”
Her fingers resume their slow movement against my chest. She doesn’t say anything more, which I appreciate.
I look down at her. “My brothers and I met earlier tonight. We’re preparing to take action against the Duvalls.”
Her eyes widen, just slightly. “What kind of move?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “Not down to the details. But it won’t be reckless. And it won’t be symbolic.”
She shifts, propping herself up on her elbow, searching my face. “When does it stop?” she asks quietly. “The danger. The fallout?”
I don’t answer immediately. I don’t soften it, either.
“When the people responsible are dealt with,” I say. “Not before, and definitely not halfway. Whoever did this will be held accountable, full stop.”
TWENTY-ONE
Coco
Plaçage: Forbidden Love in New Orleans: In 18th and 19th century New Orleans, plaçage was a system of unofficial unions between wealthy white men and free women of color, forbidden by law but socially acknowledged. These relationships often involved deep affection but were constrained by racial and social hierarchies, with tragic outcomes when societal norms forced separation. These stories reflect New Orleans’complex history of love defying boundaries at great personal cost.
Sunlight cutsthrough the tall windows of my father’s formal dining room in long, pale stripes. It should warm the space. Instead, it sharpens it.
The room is cavernous in daylight, all polished wood and distance, the kind of place designed to remind you where you stand.
My father sits at the far end of the table, posture relaxed in a way that’s obviously deliberate. The illusion doesn’t fool me.
A cup of chicory coffee steams in front of him, untouched. He has been waiting.
“You said you had something to tell me,” Laurent says. His voice is clipped, impatient. “Well?”
I asked for this meeting, thinking I might finally say the thing I’ve been carrying around in my chest. About Ridge, about how impossible it is to keep sneaking around. About the risk of my father finding out on his own and deciding to make an example of someone.
That plan dissolves the moment he looks at me.
I draw in a measured breath and lift my chin. “I heard something about who’s behind Robert Stone’s murder.”
That gets his attention. He straightens, his gaze narrowing, all pretense of relaxation gone. “What did you hear?”
We are both silent for a moment that stretches much longer than reality. I want to be taken seriously, and I also don’t want to be part of this world.
“And I told you to stay out of this,” he follows before I can answer.
“I know it wasn’t you,” I say. I keep my voice even, deliberate. “And it wasn’t anyone connected to you.”
“That isn’t news to me, Corinne.”
“I know who did it.” I let the words hang between us, long enough to register. Long enough to watch his reaction.
His eyes never leave mine. I’m sure this isn’t news to him, either, but I can tell he wants to know what I know. “So tell me.”
“Duvall.” I don’t rush it. “Iggy saw guys he knows work for him standing outside that warehouse around the time Robert was killed. They tried to lure Vin and Robert there together that night. Vin showed up and left, and then Robert was found dead the next day.”
