Chapter 35
Alex
Dad’s library smells more like leather than books or wood despite the walls being lined floor to ceiling in large, solid wood shelves and stacked to the brim with books.
I used to hide in here as a kid. Not because it was comforting but because it was quiet and dark.
The dark stained wood keeps the whole room dimmer even with a large window.
It was this room that set me on the path to being a detective.
I used to sit in the window seat and read procedural police books on repeat.
I think I read everything in here about the topic at least a dozen times.
I’m sure Dad thought it was strange for a preteen, and then later a teenager, to be reading something that heavy but I found a lot of solace in knowing that things could be fixed in the world by just being and doing the things needed.
I was too young and na?ve at the time to understand that not everyone who gets to that point in their career actually abides by it, but at least there’s some.
Now the window seat is occupied by someone else, Pip.
This isn’t the first time I’ve found him napping in here since he and Liv got here a few days ago.
Wilfred making sure that there were a set of stairs for Pip to get into the window definitely helped.
I can’t get over how much he seems to like that cat.
“Your mind is elsewhere.”
I glance up as Dad walks in, watching me over the rim of a glass with something amber in it, and sits down in one of the maroon leather chairs in the corner. He’s giving me that same calm, dissecting look he’s had my entire life.
“I’m here,” I say, like it’s that simple.
“You’re present,” he corrects. “That’s not the same thing.”
I don’t respond because he’s right.
“Alexander.”
I turn. He hasn’t moved, but he’s watching me differently now, more closely.
“What happened?” he asks.
I sit down in the matching leather chair beside him. “It’s her.”
His brow furrows slightly. “The connection you suspected.”
I nod. “It’s not just a connection. She’s the daughter of the man I suspect is running the trafficking ring. She’s the daughter of York Malone.”
He doesn’t react immediately, of course not. He’s processing the multiple bombs I just dropped. I hadn’t told him about York’s potential connection to the case. And then to admit that Liv is that bastard’s daughter?
He’s calculating how to respond. Finally, he says, “I see,” like I’ve just told him something theoretical, not something that just flipped my entire investigation on its head.
Not something that could get her killed.
“That’s your reaction?” I ask, sharper than I meant to.
His gaze lifts to mine. “What would you prefer?” he asks calmly.
“Anything,” I snap. “Because this isn’t just… information, it’s-”
“A liability,” he finishes.
The word feels wrong. It feels cold and clinical.
“She’s not a liability,” I refute.
“She is to him,” my father replies. “Which makes her one to anyone trying to get to him.”
I clench my jaw. “I know that.”
“Then don’t mistake my tone for indifference,” he responds evenly. “I’m assessing risk. That’s what I do, son. You know that.”
“Yeah, well, she isn’t a variable on a spreadsheet,” I shoot back.
“No,” he agrees. “She’s significantly more complicated than that.”
Silence settles between us, because despite everything, he’s not wrong.
“She doesn’t know,” I admit.
My father studies me. “And you intend to tell her.”
It’s not a question.
I hesitate just long enough for his expression to sharpen.
“You’re considering not telling her.”
“I’m considering timing,” I counter. I’d already decided to tell her, and I nearly did the last time I walked with her in the garden. I’d thought the scenery would help lessen the blow but chickened out in the end.
“Why?”
Because I’m scared. Because the second I say it… everything changes. She changes. The way she looks at me changes.
“You believe it will put her at risk,” he continues.
“Yes.” That’s an absolute fact.
“And withholding it won’t?”
I look away, turning my gaze back to the window. There’s no good answer.
“She deserves to know,” he says.
“I know.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
I let out a broken laugh, sounding bitter. “Take your pick,” I say. “Timing. Safety. The fact that I got the information in a way she’d never forgive me for.”
That gets his attention. “What do you mean?”
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for this. Saying it out loud, especially to Dad, makes it feel worse than telling Mason did. “I didn’t ask for it. I took it.”
His gaze sharpens further. “How?”
“A hair sample,” I admit. “From her brush.”
This time he doesn’t hide his reaction. It’s disapproval, heavy and clear.
It’s not loud disapproval or explosive, but it’s obvious.
I can’t think of a time when he looked so upset with me, even when I was eleven and he brought me to the office and I broke a prototype security drone because I picked it up without permission and dropped it.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asks quietly, echoing what he’d said when I was eleven and stood there looking down at the drone… the drone that was in eight pieces.
“Yeah,” I tell him, looking back at him in our matching chairs.
“You’ve violated her trust.”
“I know.”
“And if she finds out-”
“She will,” I cut in. “I’m not keeping that from her.”
“Then you’ve created two problems,” he says. “The man hunting her and the man she’ll believe you’ve become.”
That’s the part I can’t fix, the part that doesn’t go away with explanation or justification.
I drag my hand down my face. “I didn’t have a choice,” I mutter.
“You always have a choice,” he replies.
“Not when people are dying.” The words slip out before I can stop them. And the second they do, I hate them. I’ve used that excuse before, but it’s never as simple as it sounds.
My father watches me carefully. “That’s a dangerous philosophy,” he points out.
“It’s a realistic one.”
“It’s a convenient one,” he counters.
Silence. Again, he’s not wrong. But that doesn’t make this easier.
“I need to figure out how to tell her,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees. “You do.”
“And how to keep her safe.”
“That should have been your first concern,” he says.
“It was,” I snap. “That’s why I ran the test.”
“And now?” he asks.
Now? Now I’m standing in a house that never felt like mine, holding a truth that could destroy the one thing that does and trying to figure out how to do the right thing after I already did the wrong one.
“I tell her,” I say finally. The words are heavy and final. No more flaking. I stick to my resolution this time.
My father studies me for a long silent moment, then nods once. “Soon,” he adds, not as a suggestion but as a requirement.
I nod in acceptance.
He’s right, waiting doesn’t make it better. It just makes it worse. I stand, turning to the door. Every second I don’t tell her, is another second she’s living in a version of reality that isn’t true.
And I don’t get to decide any more how long she stays there.