I don’t bother easing into it. “Someone murdered Julian Lemaire last night.”
My father doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as blink. He lifts his glass and gives his white wine a slow, thoughtful swirl, the clear liquid catching the light as though we’re discussing a scheduling conflict instead of a homicide.
“Yes, I heard.”
So casual.
“Someone cut his throat while he was visiting his mistress at her home.”
“I hadn’t heard the details.” My father leans back in his chair, posture loose and unreadable. “Julian spent years courting danger. Men who do that don’t die quietly.”
“You’re not even a little shocked?”
I thought Julian’s death would shake him. Not because they were close, but because of everything that’s happened these past few days—the warnings, the tension in his voice when he came to my house, the weight of the danger he believed I was in.
Some part of me hoped he’d be relieved on my behalf. Another part hoped he’d be worried. Anything to tell me how to feel or what to do next.
But all I get from him is a calm demeanor. I can’t tell if it’s intended to steady me or if it’s simply who he is.
“Julian made a career out of playing with wolves. Eventually, one of them bites.”
Yes, wolves can be dangerous that way.
I study my father, trying to see past the polished judicial composure. I can’t tell if he’s being emotionally detached, or this is grief muted into professionalism. Or something far darker.
My voice lowers—not dramatically, not accusatory, but unmistakably serious. “Did you have anything to do with Julian’s death?”
He raises his eyes, slow and measured, the practiced calm of a man trained to reveal nothing. The steadiness of it unsettles me more than any shock would have.
“No.”
The word lands cleanly.
I search his face, hunting for even the smallest fracture—guilt, hesitation, a flicker of something human and conflicted. But he’s a judge. He’s spent his entire adult life perfecting the art of controlled expression. He can hold a dying man’s confession or a grieving mother’s rage without letting so much as a twitch betray his thoughts.
Still, I try.
“Dad.” My voice drops lower, softer, shaped by fear and dread. “If you did, I need to know.”
His gaze stays locked on mine, unwavering. “Laurette, I told you. I didn’t.”
A tightness gathers in my throat, and I glance down, wishing Ihadn’t implied that he could be capable of something so extreme. The grain of the table blurs as guilt presses in. I’m still staring at it, trying to steady myself, when he adds, “Not that I didn’t consider it after he threatened you.”
The words hit with unexpected force. So calm and honest. They take me off guard. My father doesn’t exaggerate. He doesn’t dramatize. He doesn’t say things to shock, so hearing him admit that without shame sends a ripple of something complicated through me.
“Julian would’ve done whatever it took to protect his son. I’d do the same for my daughter. At any cost.”
For a moment, everything inside me stills.
Not because of the threat implied, but because of the emotion threaded through the words.
It might be the most affectionate thing he’s ever said to me.
Not a hug.
Not anI love you.
Not even a softened tone.
