Chapter 24 Barron
BARRON
The news feed was on mute.
I didn’t need sound to cut.
The image was enough.
Selene, outside the federal building. Wrapped in winter silk and soft gold. A navy coat pulled tight around her waist. Hair perfect. Skin luminous. A crucifix at her throat like salvation had always been hers to wield.
She didn’t flinch at the cameras. She smiled at them. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read:
SELENE LAWLOR: Whistleblower in Federal Probe of Diamond Empire
Whistleblower.
I leaned back in my chair.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe hard.
Just watched.
The office around me didn’t move either. It was too quiet. The kind of stillness that makes noise feel like an insult. The air smelled like old paper, sharp ink, expensive leather. The windows were tinted, the light gray and indifferent.
The bourbon glass on the desk had gone untouched since last night, condensation trailing a single path toward a file I hadn’t read.
The blinds were drawn, but light still bled through. Casting long, slatted shadows across the rug Selene picked out. The one she insisted tied the room together.
Every fucking thing in here she touched. Someone handed her a mic. She accepted it like a queen taking communion. The reporters swarmed. Then one voice rose—clear, firm. Female.
“You were married to Barron Lawlor for almost ten years. From the outside, you looked like the perfect couple. Is there anything you wish to say to him now?”
Selene paused. Turned. Tilted her head. Smiled. The kind that used to precede sex. Or war.
Then:
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Thank you for giving me everything I needed to destroy you.”
I didn’t move.
She turned back to the cameras. Walked up the courthouse steps. Every click of her heels sounded like a countdown. I reached forward. Pressed the power button. The screen went black. The car was silent.
No music. No radio. No voice in my ear asking if I was okay. Because I wasn’t. Because I hadn’t been since the day she chose press over loyalty.
The drive was slow. Wipers dragging across glass that didn’t need clearing. Even the city looked like it knew better than to ask questions. I turned down the street slowly.
The hedges were still trimmed. The mailbox still clean. The security system still blinking red like a pulse.
I pulled into the drive. The gate opened on cue. Like the house still thought I lived here. Maybe I did. Maybe some version of me never left.
The brick was clean. The lawn manicured. The path to the door lined with slate she handpicked. On a whim. The front door opened with the same code she once kissed into my jaw.
The foyer greeted me with polished tile. Scented candles. Ivory hydrangeas—always fake. It smelled like citrus and money. And her.
The chandelier above me glittered faintly in the filtered light. One of the bulbs was out. I hadn’t noticed before.
I stepped inside. Silence. But not peace. Just design. Everything still in place.
The champagne flutes. The framed wedding photo that never made it to print. The couch she chose. The throw pillows she corrected. The mirror she hated until she saw her reflection in it at night.
The rugs were cream. No dust. No hair. No fingerprints. I walked through the house like a museum curator.
No.
Like a coroner.
I paused in the kitchen.
The wine rack was full. She never drank red.
The fruit bowl was wax. The lemons too perfect.
The counters wiped so many times they shone like guilt. Then upstairs. To the bedroom. The bed was made. Of course it was.
Egyptian cotton. Cream. A cashmere throw folded at the edge. Two pillows. One slightly indented. The other untouched.
I didn’t sit. I didn’t speak. I just stared at the place she used to fake sleep. And remembered the sound of her voice the last time she said:
“It just doesn’t feel like ours anymore.”
No. It never did.
It was always mine.
She never wanted a home—just something to decorate, something to own.
I walked to the garage. Pulled down the old ladder. Opened the locked trunk near the water heater. Pulled out the gas can. The weight of it was heavier than I remembered. Or maybe I was just tired. I moved slowly. Deliberately. Back through the bedroom.
I doused the sheets first. The pillows. The curtains. The rug that cost five grand and still made my skin itch. The walk-in closet where she left nothing but wire hangers.
Then the photo.
Of us.
The one she left on the mantle like a curse.
The frame cracked when it hit the floor. I poured gasoline over it anyway. I stood in the middle of the room. My shoes soaked in fuel. The air thick with promise.
I reached into my pocket. Pulled out the silver lighter Wolfe gave me for my thirty-fifth. I hadn’t used it in years. But it sparked on the first flick. I dropped it into the rug. The fire caught fast. Like it had been waiting.
I walked out the front door without looking back. The porch lit behind me. Then the staircase. Then the room where she never slept.
I walked to the edge of the driveway. Lit a cigarette.
The neighbors didn’t come out. Let them call. Let the fire department arrive. Let the city watch. Let Selene see it on the evening news.
When the first window exploded, I said it.
Soft.
Final.
“I made this for you.”
A pause.
“Now you can have it.”
Then I turned. And let it burn.