Every time my phone lit up, my pulse jumped hard enough to hurt.
Every time it stayed dark, a colder ache settled beneath my ribs.
By the time morning light filtered through my window, the room was all wrong. Too dim. Too still.
I move through my morning routine on autopilot—shower, hairtwisted into a precise knot, and blouse buttoned to the dip at my throat.
I sip coffee I don’t want but force myself to drink it anyway. Routine keeps me upright and moving.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror doesn’t look ready to prosecute anyone. She looks as if she’s bracing for a blow she can’t yet see.
I grab my bag, lock the door behind me, and walk out to begin the day. Because whether Julian’s shadow is real or imagined, whether he meant every threat or not, I refuse to let him be the reason I cower.
Fear might follow me out the door, but resolve does as well.
The courthouse seems off before I even step through the main doors. The air carries a weight it didn’t yesterday, a pressure settling over the marble and glass that prickles along my skin the moment I cross the threshold.
Security greets me the same way they always do: polite nods and clipped good mornings. By the time I reach the elevator, my nerves are humming.
The doors slide open on my floor, and the shift is immediate. This isn’t the fast-paced churn of courthouse mornings. No rustle of files, no sharp arguments spilling from open office doors, no frantic whispers about witnesses or deadlines.
Instead, there are clusters of people gathered in tight circles, heads bent close, voices pitched low. Not workplace chatter, not routine. This is the sound of news no one wants to say too loudly.
The back of my neck prickles with each pair of eyes dragging across me. My heels strike the tile in sharp, echoing beats—far too loud in a hallway that is so quiet.
Something big has happened.
Denise from records stands by the file room door, clutching a stack of folders. She offers a smile, but it’s strained, gone before it reaches her eyes. They flick downward, avoiding mine.
My pulse climbshigher.
By the time I reach my office, my palms are damp, and my breath is tight in my chest. I close the door behind me.
Whatever storm is waiting out there, whatever shift rattled this building awake, I feel it pressing against the other side of my office door. And I know it’s about to hit.
The knock is light, and the door swings open before I can respond.
Richard steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Not gently. Not halfway. Shut.
He doesn’t close my office door unless the ground is about to move beneath my feet.
He holds the folder at his side, posture stiff and expression taut. Every inch of him says he’d rather someone else deliver the words.
“Laurette—”
I push halfway out of my chair, bracing my palms on the desk. “What’s happened?”
“Julian Lemaire is dead.”
For a full heartbeat, the words don’t land. They hover in the room, weightless and unbelievable.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Someone murdered him last night at his mistress’s residence. Throat cut. And the scene was clean. A professional kind of clean.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
My knees decide they’re done holding, and I lower myself into the chair before they fail me.
