I don’t answer right away.
“I am.” I close the file with deliberate care. “But he won't be when I finish with him.”
Richard nods once. As he turns to leave, the weight of it settles into my chest—not only the case, but the pattern and escalation. The certainty that if Evan Lemaire walks free, this won’t be the last file with his name on it.
The law is always a step behind these animals. And I’m running out of patience waiting for it to catch up.
The day closes,and I swing by home to pick up what I need for a few days. I grab only the essentials of a life temporarily uprooted. No lingering in the bedroom. No staring at the spot where the dead man lay.
By the time I pull into Bastien’s drive, the knot between my shoulders has tightened into constant discomfort.
The porch light is on because he’s expecting me, and the door opens before I knock.
“Sweet Babygirl,” he says, and those words undo me.
His hand closes around my bag, and the weight leaves my shoulder. I don’t realize how tightly I’ve been holding myself together until his fingers brush mine.
The noise of the day falls away in layers. Here, it’s just him. His voice. The solid presence of his body in the doorway, blocking out everything that tried to break me today—courtrooms, closing arguments, the verdict.
I step inside, and the tension drains out of me until standing feels optional and breathing isn’t a battle anymore.
If this is what safety feels like, it’s dangerous how quickly I’ve grown addicted to it.
The house smells of food—real food. Garlic, herbs, and something warm. It’s an effort that saysstaywithout asking.
The wine is already poured, two glasses waiting. Dinner’s plated and candles are burning.
“Sit, babe. You look like you carried the entire city today.”
I have.
I sink into the chair, wrap my fingers around the stem of the glass, and allow my shoulders to drop. Bastien doesn’t ask questions right away or rush the silence. He moves around the kitchen, unhurriedly.
We eat first. Not because either of us is hungry, but because this domestic routine helps me remember how to exist in my body.
The food is delicious, but I barely taste it.
Bastien doesn’t push conversation. He lets the quiet do its work.
After the dishes are cleared, I stand by the island, gripping my glass too tightly. Then the dam gives.
When I begin speaking, it all comes out. Some of it in order, most of it tangled.
Court. Evan. Helene. The juror who wouldn’t budge, obviously bought by the Lemaires. Jon David’s smug smile when the verdict came in. The text afterward, his version of a victory lap. Richard dropping a new file on my desk. Another girl, this time left in a dumpster behind the fraternity house like she was trash. Same drug.
Bastien listens without interrupting. He doesn’t offersolutions, or judgment, or comfort disguised as reassurance. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes on me—focused, dark, and intent in a way that says every detail is being filed away.
Predatory patience.
And somewhere in the middle of my anger, my exhaustion, and my fury at a system that keeps letting monsters walk free, I realize how much relief there is in being seen this way—not as fragile, not as hysterical, but as a woman delivering intelligence to a man who knows exactly what to do with it.
The quiet stretches, and Bastien doesn’t fill it. He studies what I’ve said, what I haven’t, and what it adds up to. His gaze shifts once, briefly, like he’s turning a piece on a board only he can see.
“The bastard won’t stop,” he says at last.
Not angry. Not triumphant. Just certain.
I don’t answer right away because I don’t need to. The truth is already there, undeniable.
