I stand. The chair falls back and clangs on the hard floor, loud in the silence. Tripp flinches hard, breath hitching.
“Here’s what you don’t seem to understand,” I say. “Intent doesn’t undo consequence. You made a move that cracked our foundation. And now my father is dead.”
“I’ll fix it,” he pleads. “Just tell me how.”
“You don’t fix this,” I say. “I do.”
He shakes his head wildly. “I never heard anyone talk about killing him. I never would have let that happen.”
I look down at him, fists tight at my sides. There’s no satisfaction here. No release. Just responsibility settling in where anger should be.
“If you breathe wrong while I’m dealing with this,” I say, “you won’t breathe again. Are we clear?”
He nods, tears dripping off his chin. “Yes. Yes.”
I turn and walk out.
Gil waits outside, face set, reading my expression without needing explanation.
“Clean him up,” I say. “Keep him locked down until Isay otherwise. And let him use a toilet. This isn’t about humiliation.”
Gil nods, already moving.
I don’t look back.
My head stays stuckon Tripp’s story. The burner phone. The directive. The way he kept insisting it came from above without ever saying who “above” actually was.
If he’s telling the truth, then someone reached into the family and used him like a disposable tool. Someone inside knew exactly who to pick.
If it’s someone outside, then they knew enough to aim low and let the damage ripple upward. Either way, it isn’t random. It’s deliberate.
The third option is that Tripp made it all up to save his own skin. That would be cleaner. Easier. Except it doesn’t sit right. Tripp has never been clever. He’s reckless, loud when cornered, sloppy under pressure.
If he were lying, he would have contradicted himself by now or overplayed the fear. What I saw in that warehouse wasn’t performance. It was panic.
Which means this wasn’t his idea.
I turn it over again as I walk, but it keeps leading back to the same conclusion. Someone wanted confusion. Someone wanted us chasing ghosts instead of names.
The night air does nothing to settle me. I head toward the Quarter out of habit more than intent, letting my boots carry me while my mind keeps grinding.
The city hums low around me, boxed in by brick walls that swallow sound. The occasional laugh drifts out of a bar, but none of it reaches me.
Jackson Square opens up ahead. The cathedral is litand looming with its marble glowing under the lights and twin towers cutting into the night.
A few bodies are scattered across benches, wrapped in jackets and half-dreams. Near the fence, a lone figure stands with her arms crossed tight against her chest.
I recognize her before I’m close enough to see her face.
It’s the way she holds herself. Like she’s bracing against something that isn’t weather. Like the ground might give out if she relaxes for even a second.
Coco.
The sight of her sucks the breath out of me. I slow without meaning to, my attention narrowing until the rest of the square fades out. I told myself I was done with this. With her. Letting her walk away was the right call. More than that, it was necessary and clean.
So much for that.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s staring past the fence, her jaw set, eyes unfocused.
