Page 126 of Lucas
I pass through the gourmet kitchen with its gleaming marble countertops and state-of-the-art appliances, then the opulent living room with its priceless art. My father is nowhere to be seen. Odd. It’s late evening already, and he’s usually in here at this hour, poring over financial reports with a glass of scotch in his hand.
Anika, our long-time housekeeper, appears in the foyer, her kind face creased with concern. “Is everything alright, Mr.Valeur? Your father didn’t mention you were coming tonight.”
I flash her a strained smile, trying to exude a calmness I don’t feel. “Yes, everything’s fine. It was a last-minute decision, and I didn’t have a chance to call ahead. Is he in his office, by chance?”
She nods, gesturing down the long, portrait-lined hallway to the west wing. “Yes.”
“Thanks, Anika. I’ll just head over and see him. No need to announce me.”
The thick Persian carpet muffles my footsteps as I make my way to my father’s private office, the binder clutched to my chest like a shield. The door is slightly ajar, warm light spilling out into the darkened corridor. I reach out to knock but freeze as my father’s raised voice filters through the crack.
“They can’t prosecute me, right? I mean, it’s been years. Decades. Surely there’s a statute of limitations on this sort of thing.”
I can’t hear the other side, so I assume he’s on the phone.
My brow furrows. Prosecute? For what? I press closer, straining to hear.
“Yeah, yeah, I understand it doesn’t apply to murder. But they won’t be able to prove anything substantial, will they? It’s been too long, the evidence is gone, there’re no witnesses.” His tone is sharp, a far cry from his usual unflappable demeanor.
Murder? The word slams into me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. Icy horror slithers down my spine, my mind reeling. What the fuck is he talking about?
“I can’t go to jail now, not at my age. Not with the empire I’ve built. You have to fix this. Do you hear me? I don’t carewhat it costs, who you have to bribe or threaten or bury. Make this go away.” A pause follows as the person on the other end responds, and then Dad lets out a grunt of acknowledgment. “Yes, yes. Fine. Just do it.”
The decisive click of the phone being set down jolts me out of my shocked paralysis. I stumble back from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears. I have to get out of here. I can’t let him catch me eavesdropping, can’t bear to look him in the eye with the enormity of what I’ve just learned.
I spin on my heel and stride back down the hall, my legs moving on autopilot. Anika appears in my peripheral vision, her mouth opening to speak, but I brush past her with a terse, “Something’s come up. I have to go.”
I don’t remember the walk back to my car, the frantic turn of the key in the ignition. I come back to myself miles down the dark, winding road, the estate long vanished from the rearview mirror.
I wrench the wheel to the side and skid to a stop on the shoulder, shoving the car into Park with trembling hands.
And then I’m bent double over the steering wheel, gasping for breath, the edges of my vision sparkling black.Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
This can’t be happening. It has to be a nightmare, a sick, twisted nightmare. Because the alternative is too horrific to contemplate—that my father, the man who raised me, who I’ve looked up to and emulated my entire life, is a murderer.
Questions spin in dizzying circles, battering against the inside of my skull. Nausea churns in my gut. I want to scream, to rage, to put my fist through the fucking windshield. But Ijust sit, drained and numb, as the awful truth sinks in like poison, tainting everything it touches.
My father is a murderer, and I’m the one who has to decide what to do about it.
Logan. I should call Logan. Tell him what I’ve discovered. He’ll know what to do.
But no. I can’t do that to him, can’t shatter his world the way mine has just been. He worships our father even more than I do, modeling his entire life in his image. This would destroy Logan. Crush him in a way I’m not sure he could recover from.
Maybe I misunderstood?
A part of me, small and childlike, wants to cling to doubt. To indulge in the desperate hope that it’s all a misunderstanding, a terrible miscommunication. That there’s an innocent explanation that will make this all okay.
But I heard him, clear as day. Murder. Jail. Making it go away. There’s no ambiguity there, no room for comforting illusions.
The man who shaped me, molded me, taught me everything I know...is a killer.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
I pull back onto the road, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. I can’t go home, can’t face Ava and pretend everything is fine. I need to clear my head, to numb the anguish gnawing at my insides. I need a fucking drink. Or ten.
I turn down a side street, tires screeching, and head for the only place I know I can find blessed oblivion, however temporary.
O’Malley’s Pub.
