Chapter 37
Bastien Montclaire
Murder’s easy. Covering it up is where the art comes in.
It wasn’t difficult to find his car. He parked as if the neighbors’ cameras didn’t exist. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Matt will take care of the neighbors’ footage. And yes, I’ll owe him once more.
I sit behind the wheel of the man’s car. Headlights carve a clean path through the dark. In the rearview mirror, the street behind me erases itself.
Matt calls back before I reach the end of the block. “Plates belong to Calvin Moreau. Multiple priors.”
A pause. Another.
Keys tap, stop, then resume.
“Armed robbery. Assault. Extortion. Intimidation. Trafficking facilitation.”
The list keeps coming, each charge landing with dull familiarity. I turn onto a side street and ease off the gas.
“Never graduated to murder though,” Matt says. “Kept his hands clean enough, but cops are familiar with him. In and out. Never stayed long.”
I picture a man who survived on smaller crimes with smaller rewards. The kind who learned at a young age how far he could push without crossing a line he couldn’t slip back from.
“Until tonight,” I say.
Matt exhales. “Yeah. At least no homicides on record that I can find. This was fresh territory for him.”
“Thanks, bro. See you soon.”
Some men survive because they know where the edge is. Some die the first time they mistake it.
Of course, he misjudged. He wasn’t built for this kind of job, one he didn’t understand. He thought it was another felony that paid better than usual.
Wrong.
I stop at a red light, and a streetlamp shines on him in the passenger seat. His face is slack, emptied of whatever calculations once lived there.
His mistake was taking a job he didn’t understand and stepping into something he thought he could control.
He misread the room. Misread the target. Misread me.
I don’t miss. He did, and that’s the difference between being a professional and a corpse.
The Lemaire mansion waits at the end of the street—tall, manicured, insulated by money and the assumption that nothing bad ever reaches this far. I pull in and park the car where it can’t be ignored.
I picture the morning. Helene stepping out of her pristine home, still believing she’s untouchable.
The hesitation when she sees the car. Confusion giving way to irritation.
Then the sudden spike of understanding that crawls up her spine when she realizes this problem of her own making is now sitting in her driveway.
This is where the actual work happens. She’ll have a choice to make. Call the police and tell them there’s a dead man in her drive that could lead back to her… or clean up her own mess before anyone else sees it.
Either way, she’s stained now.
Either way, she bleeds.
I leave the keys in the ignition and close the door behind me. No rush or drama. I’m a ghost who walks away without looking back, already finished with the problem I’ve returned to her.
This one is on her now.
I keep the burner though and wake the screen, opening their thread.
Your contractor, Mr. Moreau, arrived. He wasn’t prepared for the scope of the work. You should have hired someone with more experience.
I pause. Long enough for the meaning to sink in.
Julian made the same mistake. He underestimated how far I’m willing to go to protect her.
That one will sting. It’s meant to.
One last message. The hook.
You misjudged the board. If you’d like to continue playing, make your next move carefully. If you move against her again, understand how close I already am.
Now we have a clear understanding of who’s watching and who’s being watched. I slip the phone into my pocket and wait for her to decide if she’s brave enough to answer.
The mouse always thinks the danger is over when the cat stops moving. But that’s when the game actually begins.
I don’t linger. There’s no reason to stay close to the board once the pieces are in place.
A few minutes later, Matt’s headlights sweep the street a block from the Lemaire property. I get in without a word. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He never does.
We drive in silence, and streetlights tick by on the road.
“So… the prosecutor.”
I watch the city slide past the window. “Her name’s Laurette.”
He catches the shift. “Are you falling?”
The words land heavier than they should.
“Yeah.” I pause and shake my head. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
“And her?”
“She feels it too.”
That earns a glance. “This is where I tell you it won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t know the real you.”
“She knows enough.”
“And she’s okay with that?”
I think of her standing naked in the doorway, saying she feels it too. No fear in her eyes. No pause. She’d already decided I’m worth the fall.
“She’s not afraid.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. “She’s an ADA, Bastien. She swore an oath, and that oath could put you in a cage. That’s not a minor risk.”
I turn to him. “You know me. I don’t do minor risks.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No, you never have.”
“She’s worth the fall.”
Matt shakes his head, a crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess you never had it in you to want normal.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He pulls up to her house and cuts the engine.
“For what it’s worth, if anyone was going to make you reckless enough to try a relationship, I’m glad it’s her.”
I open the door. “Me too.”
Her house is dimly lit when I walk up the drive. I pause at the door and take a deep breath. The front door opens before I can knock. She’s there—dressed and ready to go, a small bag at her side. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, damp strands escaping at her nape.
She’s steadier than she was when I left, but the faint shadow at her throat tells the truth her posture tries to hide. Her eyes lock onto mine and don’t let go.
Something in my chest loosens. Relief hits harder than the fight ever did.
This is the dangerous part—not moving the body, not Helene, not the games people think they’re clever enough to play.
It’s Laurette standing here, waiting for me like I’m already hers… and she’s already mine.
I cross the distance, but I don’t touch her right away. I simply look—taking her in, making sure nothing changed while I was gone.
“You’re okay?”
She nods once and closes the remaining space between us. I pull her in, shielding her throat, keeping her tucked against me. Her fingers curl into my shirt and don’t let go.
This—she and I—probably won’t work. But there’s a slight chance it could, and that makes it worth the risk. I’d destroy everything I’ve ever built to keep her safe from danger.
I open the passenger door of my Escalade. She doesn’t pause or look back, just gets in where she belongs beside me.
I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Her hand rests on the console, and I claim it without a word. She laces her fingers with mine and doesn’t let go.
I drive, my eyes on the mirrors and shadows. Years of habit don’t dissolve because she’s safe for now.
But somewhere between the red lights and green, between the ache in my chest and the pulse in hers, my thumb brushes across her knuckles. And for the first time tonight, I let myself breathe.
My house sits back from the road, half-hidden by trees and shadow. No gates or guards. Nothing that announces what it’s worth or who lives inside. Just quiet confidence and a privacy money buys when it doesn’t need to prove itself.
I pull into the drive and she studies the house, taking it in. The lines are clean. The landscaping is deliberate without being showy. Motion lights tucked where they belong. Cameras placed where they’re useful, not obvious. A security that doesn’t want attention.
I step out first, circle around, and open her door.
Inside, everything is intentional. Dark wood. Stone. Lighting designed to reveal only what needs to be seen.
Her gaze moves from the ceiling to the floor to the wide windows that look out into nothing but trees and night.
“I love your house.” Her eyes move over the clean lines and bare surfaces, nothing softened by habit or history. “It’s very masculine.”
“Simple. That’s how I like things to be.”
She smirks. “Are you sure about that?”
No photographs. No throw pillows. No trace of anyone else having tried to make it gentler. The space hasn’t been shaped around anyone. It’s sharp and efficient.
“You’re safe here.”
She turns to me, eyes steady. “I know.”
And the way she says it tells me she’s not talking about locks or cameras or the distance from the street.
She means me.
Something settles in my chest, heavy and grounding all at once. This house has been a refuge, a fortress, a place where I could disappear between jobs.
Tonight, it becomes something else entirely with her here.
Home.
I take her bag before she can reach for it. She doesn’t argue, just lets me carry it down the hall.
The bedroom echoes the rest of the house—clean lines, neutral tones, nothing wasted, nothing out of place.
“The bathroom’s there,” I say, nodding toward the open door. “Take your time.”
She does.
I undress while the water runs, stopping at my underwear. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, waiting. It’s not a position I’m used to—this kind of stillness without a mission attached. But I don’t move.
When she comes back, she’s changed into a simple T-shirt and sleep shorts. No effort to be anything but comfortable. And somehow that does more damage than lace ever could.
She crosses the room, eyes never leaving my face. Up close, in the light, she really looks at me—features, scars, the truth of me without shadow or disguise. Her fingers come up and brush my jaw.
“So this is you. Bastien.”
I huff a quiet breath. “Guess this means no more masks.”
She shakes her head, a small smile touching her mouth. “You can still wear the mask whenever you want… for fun.” Her gaze holds mine, unflinching. Curious. Unafraid. “But I very much like who’s underneath.”
Something tightens in my chest. Not desire. Something closer to surrender.