“That should tell you something about who she was,” he said. “How good she was at lying.”
My throat tightened. Rage sparked.
“Or how scared she was of you,” I shot back.
That landed.
For a second, something flickered in his face—offense. Then something colder.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he said softly.
I swallowed.
I knew enough.
I knew he was standing in my dead sister’s apartment with a gun.
I knew Sabine was in the room with him.
I knew that whatever story Randy told people about his marriage—the high-powered couple, the ambitious wife, the glamorous travel—it had never included the part where he believed ownership was the same thing as love.
Randy’s gaze dropped to Sabine again. She was still on the floor, toys scattered around her, sensing tension now but not fully understanding it. Her small hands had stilled.
Her eyes—Rose’s eyes—flicked between faces.
Confusion.
A tremble of fear.
My chest squeezed so hard it hurt.
Randy’s voice changed. It went quieter. More controlled.
More dangerous.
“Is she mine?” he asked.
The question sliced through the room.
I stared at him.
“What?” I breathed.
His eyes were manic now, but the words were precise. Deliberate.
“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped. “You heard me.”
He took a half step closer to Sabine, like her proximity gave him power. The gun angled down again, too close.
My entire body went rigid.
“I don’t know,” I said quickly.
“You don’t know,” he repeated, mockery dripping from every syllable. “You don’t know if your sister’s child is mine?”
“I didn’t even know she had a child until this morning,” I said, voice breaking. “How would I know that?”
His jaw ticked. The vein in his neck throbbed visibly.
