Chloe rose halfway from her chair.
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No,” Julian said.
Blue light flashed across the dining room walls.
Mother’s china cabinet glowed briefly, then darkened again.
Julian looked at me.
“What did you do?”
The doorbell rang.
I placed my napkin beside my plate.
“I made a phone call.”
He stood so quickly that his chair scraped backward.
“You had no right.”
The bell rang again.
A fist struck the front door.
“County Sheriff’s Department!”
Chloe’s face lost all color.
Julian moved toward me.
I remained seated.
“Don’t,” I said.
He stopped.
For the first time that evening, he seemed to see me clearly—not as his absent sister, not as the guilty daughter he could manipulate, but as the prosecutor who had spent half her life dismantling lies more sophisticated than his.
The pounding came again.
