My face arranges itself into shock, and my heart slams against my ribs.
Murdered.
The threat that shoved itself into my home, into my father’s voice, into my sleep is gone.
“Do they have any leads?”
He answers with a shake of his head. “Nothing yet. Only theories. Julian wouldn’t have a short list of enemies.”
I tighten my grip on the pen in my hand, the plastic flexing. “Right. Of course.”
Many would consider me his enemy.
His gaze lingers on me. “I’ll loop you in as the investigation develops. Until then, stay focused on your current caseload and don’t entertain the gossip. People get reckless with stories in these situations.”
“Understood.”
Richard nods once, then opens the door and steps out. Silence drops into the room, settling over me.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the grain of my desk. My lungs expand fully for the first time since Julian Lemaire threatened me.
A single, undeniable truth threads through me with clean, cutting clarity: I’ve never been more relieved in my life.
I should tell Richard about the threats. It’s the ethical thing to do. It would look bad—catastrophically bad—if it ever comes to light that Julian threatened me and I said nothing.
Every ethics seminar, every protocol binder, every mandatory training I’ve ever half-slept through makes the same point—disclose threats immediately, put them on record, create a trail, protect your integrity and the case’s.
If Julian’s threats ever surface, my silence will look suspicious at best and incriminating at worst. The moment anyone connects “Julian threatened Laurette” to “Julian was murdered,” every eye in this building will pivot toward me. Or toward someone acting on my behalf.
I know all of this. And still, I don’t move. I don’t open my mouth. I don’t reach for the phone.
Instead, I sit there staring at my computer screen. My heartbeat wedges itself under my sternum, tight and pounding. Because another thought wedges itself deeper and colder.
What if this wasn’t random?
My father came to warn me, tense in ways he never shows.
Julian made it clear he’d kill me if I pushed his son’s case. And now he’s lying on a metal table with his throat cut.
Cleanly.
Professionally.
My father was shaken.Truly shaken.And now the man who frightened him is dead.
What if the two events aren’t separate?
The thought should terrify me. The ethical implications alone should make me sick.
Instead, something heavier settles in my chest, something I don’t want to name.
If my father acted, if he removed the threat because I left him no other way to keep me safe, why would I shine a spotlight on him for doing what he thought was necessary?
Do I want detectives asking why he visited me last night, why he was rattled, why Julian would target his daughter in the first place?
The thought alone sends a chill through me. And do I want to sit on a stand while lawyers tear apart every decision my father made to protect me? Absolutely not.
The answer hits instantly. So I bury it. I push the truth down, sealing it beneath every justification I can reach for.
