I tell myself it isn’t relevant to Evan Lemaire’s prosecution, that introducing speculation will only muddy the waters, that the case needs clarity and not the chaos that comes with half-formed theories.
I pretend silence is the smarter option, the safer route, the more controlled path forward.
But none of that is the real reason.
The truth is simpler, more personal, and far more dangerous to acknowledge. I’m keeping quiet because I’m protecting someone I love.
It’s an unnerving thing to sit in my office surrounded by statutes and binders and case law while holding a secret large enough to tilt an entire investigation. To sit at the center of the justice system with something this explosive clenched behind my teeth is surreal.
Richard will never hear about Julian’s hypotheticals. The detectives won’t either. The threats stay with me, buried where no one can dig them up.
And so does the silence.
By noon, I’ve reread the same sentence five times and still can’t tell you what it says. My focus is shattered into useless pieces, slipping through my fingers every time I try to drag it back to the files on my desk. The office has settled into a strange equilibrium—steadier than the frantic whispers of the morning but no less tense.
People are still talking about Julian’s murder.
Just differently.
The initial shock has cooled into speculation. Motives. Suspects. Political fallout. Professional gossip dressed up as analysis.
I can’t sit here any longer.
My chair scrapes back from the desk, the sound sharp enough to make Sarah glance into my office through the open door with a flicker of curiosity.
I grab my coat, pretending I’m heading for lunch, even though my stomach hasn’t unclenched in hours.
Food is the last thing on my mind.
My father still hasn’t called—no text, no knock on my door. Nothing.
Which is wrong. My phone should’ve lit up by now.
My heels echo along the polished hallway, each step a countdown as I make my way to the judicial wing of the courthouse. His chamber door stands half-open. I pause, draw a shallow breath, then knock once and push it open.
He’s standing behind his desk, papers sorted into immaculate stacks, jacket already on. He looks ready to leave but not rushed.
“Busy?” I ask, stepping inside.
His eyes lift, sharp and unreadable. “Just about to take lunch.”
“Good.” I close the door behind me, letting it shut with a quiet, decisive click. “You can take it with me.”
His brow lifts a fraction. “I’ve already made plans.”
“Break them.” My pulse is pounding hard enough to make my fingertips thrum. “We need to talk in private.”
A beat stretches thinly between us. He’s pondering whether this is one of those father-daughter moments he can dismiss with a calm wave of authority.
The old dynamic settles over us. Him, the judge. Me, the one waiting to be granted an audience.
But this time, he must see something in my face he can’t brush aside.
He nods once, a small concession, but a concession all the same.
“All right.”
The server dropsoff two glasses of white and murmurs something about returning soon with our meals, but neither of us is listening. He walks away, and the quiet he leaves behind feels thick enough to choke on. The clink of silverware and the low hum of lunchtime conversation blur in the background, distant and irrelevant.
