“Going well, Mom. A couple of tricky cases, but I just wrapped one up.”
The deceit comes out smoothly as it always does. But it tastes bitter every time. I hate lying to her. To all of them. The way her face softens, proud and trusting, guts me in a way nothing else can. She thinks I’m out there helping people, digging up lost truths, and chasing down justice.
Not hunting predators when justice fails. Not spilling blood in quiet rooms, making monsters disappear because no one else will.
But this is the cost of maintaining the illusion. So I drink my wine and let the lie settle between us.
She nods, satisfied. “And you, Matt? You’re keeping those computers running for Uncle Sam?”
Matt chuckles, reaching for his drink. “You know how it is. Can’t say much, but the government keeps me busy.”
Dad chimes in from the head of the table. He’s a man of few words, but they always land. “You’ve both earned your calluses.” He looks at Matt, then at me, something proud simmering beneath the surface. “Hard work’s in your blood and always has been. Military, agency work, doesn’t matter. This family is filled with men who don’t flinch.”
I used to live to earn his approval. Busted my ass to earn it. Joined the military straight out of high school, clawed my way into the Green Berets just to prove I had the grit, that I could be a man he respected—disciplined, brave, and unbreakable. Like him.
And now?
I kill for money, erase men who slip through the cracks, and I smile while I do it. If they suspected the truth—what I’ve done, who I’ve become—this table would go silent for real. There wouldn’t be a proud word left in the room.
But I keep my mask on and raise my wineglass as if I believe I still belong here.
Across the table, Juliette’s gone quiet, too quiet for someone who never stops talking.
My mother notices, of course. She never misses a thing.
“So, Juju, any news in your world?”
She perks up a little. “Actually, yes. I have a date this weekend.”
My fork halts halfway to my mouth, and the metal clanks against the plate when I lower it.
“With whom?”
She lifts her chin, already bracing. “His name’s Marc. He’s in my lit class.”
Marc. The name tastes wrong.
I say nothing as I study her. She’s too pretty for her own damn good and too trusting for this world. The idea of some punk putting his hands on her makes my jaw tighten.
If he hurts her, I’ll bury him where no one will ever find the body. Because that’s what older brothers do.
“How old is this Marc?”
“Eighteen.”
“Is he respectful?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have a job?”
“Bastien,” my mother warns.
I ignore her. “Does he drink? Party? Do drugs?”
Juliette rolls her eyes. “Not that it’s your business, but no. He’s a good guy.”
The dangerous ones don’t always appear harmful. Not at first. Not until the mask slips.
