“Calloway,” he repeats.
“Mr. DeGrance.”
“How much does he know?” he asks me, but he’s looking at Lance.
“Everything,” I say. “He knows everything.”
My father studies him for a long moment. Then he steps back and gestures us inside. “Lock the door behind you. All three.”
The brownstone is dim. The kitchen, which used to be the warmest room in the house, with copper pots and steam and my dad’s singing, feels cold. The stove is clean like he hasn’t touched it since I left. There are takeout containers stacked by the trash. A laptop open on the table, surrounded by legal padscovered in his cramped handwriting. Files. Manila folders. A second phone next to his regular one.
“Nice to see youdohave your phone.”
“Sit,” he says, and it’s not a request.
We sit. Lance takes the chair closest to the door.
“Papa.” I fold my hands on the table because they won’t stop shaking. “You owe me an explanation.”
“I know.”
“Four calls. Weeks of silence. The code word. And then nothing.Nothing.I thought you were dead.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m so sorry,mon chou.”
“Then talk.”
He places his palms flat on the table, the way he does before opening statements. Grounding himself. Organizing.
“You know who I represent,” he says. “You’ve always known, in broad strokes. Criminal defense. High-profile clients. The kind of people whose names you don’t say at dinner parties.”
“Papa, I don’t need the preamble.”
“You’re going to get it anyway.” His voice firms, and there he is, the man who taught me to never let opposing counsel hear you sweat. “Badon Hill has been my client for years.”
“You mean Brutus Myrddin,” Lance interrupts.
My father’s eyes flick to him. “Yes. The organization, his associates, anyone who needed representation on their side of the line. I’ve defended cases you wouldn’t believe, Genevieve. Things I’ll never tell you. Things I’m not proud of. But it was work, and the work paid well, and it kept you fed and safe and in good schools, and I told myself that was enough.”
He sucks in a breath.
“Eight months ago, the FBI came to see me.”
My stomach drops and Lance shifts in the corner.
“They had a case. A RICO investigation into Badon Hill’s operations, the financial networks, the shell companies. They wanted me to cooperate. To turn over privileged communications, client records, anything that could help them build the case from the inside.”
“You’re a defense attorney,” I say. “You can’t just hand over client files. That’s…”
“Illegal. Unethical. Career-ending.” He nods. “I told them no. Attorney-client privilege is sacrosanct, and regardless of who my clients are, I don’t betray a confidence. That’s not the kind of lawyer I am.”
“So what changed?”
His face fractures, a crack in his composure, and then it’s gone.
“You did.”
The room goes very quiet.
