Page 49 of The Silent Hour

By the time I reached the next corridor, I'd already dismissed the encounter.

The scent of Julia’s perfume would still be on my collar when I walked through the door. My daughters’ backpacks would be slumped by the stairs, their small sneakers kicked off in a hurry.

Upstairs on my desk, the Cortez file sat like a sleeping dragon, its seven-figure settlement waiting to be claimed.

Every piece of this life—the Persian rug in the foyer, to the way my youngest laughed—I had laid brick by brick. Lila Marino, with her observant eyes and unflappable composure, didn't so much as ripple the surface.

The conviction settled in my chest, solid and immediate. Absolute. And because it felt so true, I didn't pause to ask myself why I’d needed the reassurance.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JULIA

THE LONE LAMP PAINTED the living room in a soft, amber glow, its light swallowed by the deep shadows in the corners. I sat curled on my end of the sofa, knees drawn up, staring blankly at the television where some Netflix show murmured on.

Mouths moved. Stories played out, then the coffee table hummed. My phone lit up with a Gate Entry alert. My heart unclenched. 10:47 p.m. Not alarmingly late, but later than normal.

I bit my lip, recalling the strain in his voice during our call and the odd text that followed. I had no idea what waited on the other side of that door—which version of him would walk through it. The twins were sound asleep upstairs, their faces smoothed of every worry in the deep slumber that somehow erased the decade since they'd been babies.

When I’d told the girls their father would be home late, they merely glanced up from their homework and nodded, pencils scratching against paper as they kept at long division and spelling practice. No questions. No worry. The hush of the house felt almost deliberate, only the soft hum of the desk lamp and the distant tick of the wall clock filling the quiet.

Granted, it was unusual for their dad to miss dinner and the bedtime routine, but I found myself blinking back a small tide of emotion at how calmly they accepted such an ordinary adult reality. Dad was working late. He’d come home eventually, that was the end of story.

The moment I heard the front door click and the latch drop, I rose and padded barefoot through the dim hallway, my steps muffled by the wool runner. Pale moonlight filtered through the sidelights, casting slender beams across the polished hardwood. In the foyer, I halted just inside the glow of the overhead lantern, taking him in as he crouched at the entry bench.

His back was curved, shoulders drawn forward, as he lined up his shoes with the same precise symmetry he’d followed for years. Dark strands of hair fell forward, brushing the nape of his neck, and for a heartbeat I saw the familiar ritual in new relief.

“Hey,” I murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a secret between us.

His head lifted slowly. The tension etched around his mouth softened, if only imperceptibly. He rose to his full height, the fabric of his jacket whispering as he straightened. Three confident strides later, his arms circled me, warm and firm. I inhaled deeply—his cologne, a subtle blend of cedar wood and citrus, melding with the everyday warmth of his skin.

When he eased back, his lips brushed my forehead—a gentle, lingering kiss. “Hi, bella,” he said, voice husky with fatigue and relief.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, brushing a stray hair from his forehead.

“Still full from lunch.” He pressed another soft kiss to my temple before slipping out of my embrace. “I’m going to grab some water. Give me a minute, and I’ll join you in the living room.”

I waited in the foyer as he padded away, the quiet footsteps fading toward the kitchen. A moment later, I returned to the couch where a cozy patchwork throw lay draped over the arm. The cushions carried the faint imprint of our afternoons together—where we’d curl up with books or laugh over a sitcom.

He arrived shortly after, holding his tall bottle of electrolyte water, condensation beading on the plastic. As he settled beside me, the couch shifted under his weight. He reached out, lifting one arm in that familiar, unspoken invitation. I scooted close, tucking myself against his side. He stretched the cashmere throw—a deep charcoal gray—over our laps, then leaned in to press a featherlight kiss to my hair.

“Girls go down okay?” he rumbled against my ear, the vibration like a comforting drumbeat.

“Mmhmm,” I replied, tilting my head up to brush my cheek against his chest. “Oh—and I signed the permission slip for that pumpkin-picking trip at Berry Farms. They have been talking about it nonstop.”

He offered a half-smile, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Think Ari will settle for just one pumpkin this year?”

I laughed softly. “At this point, I’d take that as a major victory. She’s still dead set on being ‘Thumb-Thumb’ from Spy Kids for Halloween.”

He chuckled, his arm tightening around me, and for a moment the hush of the house felt like the safest place in the world.

"Wonder where she gets that stubborn streak."

"Don't look at me. That's pure Ethan Marcelli DNA right there."

He huffed once through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough. I settled deeper into his side. On the television, the muted show cycled through its scenes, casting pale flickers of blue light across the far wall. The throw was warm. His heartbeat was slow and even beneath my cheek. Neither of us reached for the remote.

"About Lila."