Page 71 of Redline Communion

The sentence lands without accusation. Alistair rarely reaches for one before he has decided exactly where to place it.

“Who told you?”

“A concerned member of the household.”

“Who?”

His mouth shifts almost imperceptibly. “That isn’t relevant.”

Which means it is.

Carmen would not bring this to him unless she believed Lorelei was in immediate physical danger. Helena would have documented it through the household system. Dominic would tell me directly, if only because he would want to see what I did with the knowledge.

Ash.

The answer arrives before I finish considering the others. I don’t say his name, but Alistair watches me find it.

“How often?” I ask.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“That is becoming clear.”

The words should irritate me. Instead they expose an omission I should have noticed weeks ago.

Rafe’s reports have become sparse: Lorelei attends class, returns home, spends time with university friends, no notable incidents, no material changes. I accepted the compression because Rafe has never been good at paperwork and Dominic assured me the surveillance itself remained intact. I also accepted it because the Offering required preparation, Ash had to be excluded, Talia’s arrangement required adjustment, and every new problem arrived attached to another one.

I told myself I was managing priorities.

This should have surfaced anyway.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

Alistair returns his attention to the page. “Long enough to know your oversight is not new.”

My jaw tightens. He notices, of course, but gives no indication that the reaction interests him.

“Fix it,” he says. “Quietly. And I would begin with whoever is supplying it. If the household is still unaware by the end of the week, I will fix it myself, and I will not ask whether you had a preference about how.”

I understand the sentence before he finishes it. There is only one person in this house who supplies anything to Lorelei, and my father has placed her name inside a threat without speaking it.

“Understood.”

“I am confident you do.”

I leave the study with the ledger beneath one arm and a question I dislike enough to carry personally.

Talia is in the east sitting room. Lorelei is not, a fact I establish before I register anything else. Talia has one leg folded beneath her on the sofa, reading something on her phone while the television plays silently in front of her, and she looks up when I enter with an expression that begins as casual and disappears as soon as she sees my face.

“How often is Lorelei using cocaine?”

A pause follows. It would mean nothing to most people, but I know her too well for that.

Talia locks her phone and places it facedown beside her. “I don’t keep a calendar.”

“That wasn’t the question.”