Chapter
Seven
Alicia
Upstairs, I don’t have the energy to call Dorian, so I text.
* * *
Me: Know you’re worried, but I’m good.
* * *
Dorian: Did you know him? Any connection to your business? Or to a client’s?
* * *
I swirl my wine, watching twilight drain from the sky. The window throws my reflection back—tired eyes, pale skin, the outline of someone barely holding on. Outside, the lone tree in my postage-stamp backyard shivers, leaves curling like paper set too close to flame.
Did I know him?
If I say yes, it will sound like a confession. Dorian may read it as heartbreak.
Stick to what’s relevant. No more, no less.
I take another sip—and text again.
* * *
Me: You’re looking for connections where there are none.
* * *
The phone vibrates. Of course.
“How are you, really?” Dorian’s voice is rough with worry. “And don’t give me fine. You were with a man who died today.”
“I’m still absorbing it.”
“Matthew Delacroix. That name rings a bell. Where do I know him from? Did he work with?—”
“Mom! I’m home!” Stella’s voice cuts through.
Dorian exhales with a loud breath. “Tell her hi. Call me tomorrow. I’m digging into?—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “It’s?—”
“Mom, Dad’s here! Can you come down?”
I close my eyes. Perfect.
“Richard,” Dorian mutters.
“You’re on speaker,” I warn. “I’ve got to go.”
He grumbles and disconnects.
I leave the wine where it sits—caught by the window’s fading light—and square my shoulders before heading downstairs.