Page 72 of The Silent Hour

I kissed my wife because she was the one person in the world I never had to perform certainty for. And right then, with Cortez's revelation still turning over in my head and a dozen unanswered questions waiting for me tomorrow, certainty was the one thing I didn't have.

Except about her.

I never questioned her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

JULIA

SATURDAY PASSED IN a blur.

Ethan and I spent the morning with the girls down at the beach, chasing shells and sea foam while their laughter carried over the tide. By the time the sun climbed high, he'd moved into the home gym while I sprawled in the sand with a paperback, stealing glances at him through the open doors like I hadn't been watching him the entire damn time.

Afterward, he showered and barricaded himself inside his home office, surrounded by files, locked drawers, and enough privileged information to make the federal government salivate.

I fell into my own rhythm. I kept the girls occupied, fed everyone, made sure Ethan ate something that didn't come wrapped in plastic, and restocked the refrigerator in his office. The hours bled together until darkness settled over the house and I finally had time to start on a few things of my own.

When I went to tell him goodnight, I didn't make it right back out.

He decided his face made a perfectly acceptable desert plate, then eventually sent me on my way with his scent still clinging to my skin and a reminder that no matter how complicated the world outside our bedroom became, my husband remained extremely committed to being a menace inside it.

Sunday slid into view far too quickly, like a train barreling down the tracks before I could catch my breath.

The weekly pilgrimage to his parents’ sprawling estate was a ceremony all its own—long, unspoken rules unfolding at every turn. By the time we’d finished our meal in the high-ceilinged dining room, the tableware had been whisked away, and the children spilled onto the manicured lawn, their laughter echoing across the hedges as they tore through a frantic game of freeze tag.

I lingered on the shaded rear patio, nestled in a circle of wicker chairs with Carmen, Latoya, Serena, my mother, and Isabella. Scattered between us were crystal wineglasses—deep ruby and pale rose—and mismatched tea cups still steaming faintly of chamomile. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trellis overhead, painting dappled patterns on the stone floor.

Inside, the men had been holed up in Alessandro’s study for nearly an hour. Ethan, Knox, Rafa, Eric, Damian, Tato, and Alessandro themselves had slammed that heavy oak door and retreated behind it to pick apart every detail of Cortez, Monday, and whatever Ethan hadn’t felt comfortable sharing over the phone. Muffled voices drifted out—urgent, clipped syllables meant for adult ears only.

Carmen lifted her glass toward me, the wine trembling at the rim. “Fuck that. If Cortez dropped the daughter bomb in the middle of a prison meeting, he had to know Ethan would mention it. What was Ethan supposed to do? Lie?”

“Many husbands would have,” Isabella—my mother-in-law—observed, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. Her voice was as cool as her pearl necklace.

Serena shifted, smoothing her skirt over the wicker armrest. “Well, I was in the room, so I would’ve told you if Ethan stayed silent.” She met my eyes with an earnest tilt of her chin.

I offered her a small smile, grateful for her loyalty.

Next to me, Toya bumped her knee against mine, her grin conspiratorial. “Well, I’ll be popping around Knox’s office with fresh cookies every other day just so I can mean-mug Lila whenever she shows up. Passive-aggression is my gift to the world.”

“Store-bought cookies, right?” Carmen teased. “Because you can’t bake worth a damn.”

“And that’s exactly why you won’t get any when I’m doing my rounds,” Toya shot back, tossing her hair with mock offense.

We all laughed, but my gaze drifted. Too many pieces were moving now, and I couldn’t tell which belonged to the same puzzle—and that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

At some point, Alessandro summoned Isabella and my mother back inside. He stood in the doorway like a stern sentinel—an older echo of Ethan, from the precise slope of his shoulders to the unflinching poker face. The two women rose and vanished through the door like emissaries called to a war council.

I almost exhaled. All evening they’d watched me as though waiting for me to turn Sunday dinner into a special episode of “Snapped.” But I wasn’t there yet. I’d spent the weekend absorbing what Ethan shared on Friday night: the raw facts were straightforward, but the implications spiraled into unknown territory.

Yes, Lila was Dominic Cortez’s daughter. Yes, he wanted her looped into his defense. Beyond that? A gaping question mark. Did Lila know he’d approached Ethan? Did she have insider knowledge about the case? Did her role at the firm hinge on her lineage? I refused to build a case on speculation—but I also refused to ignore what might be lurking in the shadows.

Ethan would fill me in on the study-room debrief later, within his own carefully drawn boundaries. For now, I needed boots on the ground. I leaned toward Serena, lowering my voice. “Rena?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes?”

I dipped my chin. “Can you do me a favor—quietly?”

She set down her glass with delicate precision. “You’re speaking my love language.”