I’m not some doe-eyed daughter clinging to fairy tales. My father has made a name for himself. I’ve heard the whispers about the deals made behind chambers’ doors and the verdicts that swung a little too cleanly. They say he trades favors like chips at a poker table.
People talk. They always have.
And while no one ever says it loudly, they all know better than to cross a judge who plays the long game and always comes out clean.
I didn’t follow in his footsteps out of admiration. I followed them because someone has to clean up what men of his kind leave behind.
Mom uses the lull of the conversation to shift the topic… right back to me.
Dammit.
“So, Laurette, how’s the single life treating you?”
I’ve been single for all of five minutes. And in that time, I’ve somehow gotten tangled up with a man who watches me from the shadows and sends messages that make my skin heat and crawl at the same time.
If that counts as single, I’m doing great.
“I’m embracing it,” I say, lifting my glass.
“Any interesting prospects?” Her tone is casual, but her eyes miss nothing.
I have a very interesting prospect at the moment, but I doubt she wants to hear about the man I kneel for and callMy Wolf.
“No prospects at the moment.”
My mother is one of those women cursed with the belief that happiness comes in a man-shaped box. Preferably with a respectable career, a crisp collar, and a house in the Garden District. She’s never understood that I’m not wired that way. I don’t need a man to make me whole.
And that Garden District house? I bought it myself. No man necessary.
The banter fizzles, and everyone drifts toward the living room. My father touches my arm and nods toward the study. “A moment, Laurette.”
His study smells of polished wood, old leather, and the faint, lingering sweetness of Prince Albert tobacco. His pipe always rests nearby, even if he hasn’t lit it in hours. He closes the door behind us, and I take a seat facing the desk he’s ruled from for years.
“There’s a case coming your way, and I need a favor.”
He doesn’t ease into it.
I fold my arms and lean back, watching him. “What kind of favor?”
He exhales through his nose, a tell that he’s trying to make this sound simpler than it is. “A friend of mine, an old friend… his son’s in trouble.”
Of course he is.
I bite back the sigh clawing its way up my throat. “What kind of trouble?”
He doesn’t flinch or blink. “Sexual assault. It happened at the boy’s fraternity house during a party. The girl got drunk, got what she came to get, and now she’s claiming rape.”
Just like that, flat and clinical, as if the girl is a smear on the boy’s record. As if the boy is already halfway forgiven because of who his parents are.
“What’s his name?” I ask, even though I already know. There’s only one file on my desk this messy, only one case that would drag me into this room.
“Evan Lemaire.”
“The file’s already on my desk. I skimmed it a couple of days ago. Pretty cut and dry, from what I saw.”
He nods, but there’s something tight in his jaw. “You remember Julian and Helene. It’s their son. A well-established family. Pillars of the community.”
As if parentage changes the evidence. As if a clean bloodline and a country club membership rewrite the girl’s statement, the bruises, and toxicology report. As if his father’s standing should soften the blow of the truth.
