Chapter 36 - The Sunday Dinner
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The knock at the front door was a familiar, rhythmic pattern—two sharp raps, a pause, and one more. It was Julian. I took a deep breath, letting the residual tension of my thoughts evaporate into the warm, cinnamon-scented air of the kitchen, and walked down the hallway to let him in.
"You're exactly two minutes late," I said, pulling the heavy oak door open.
Julian stood on the porch, holding two large brown paper bags grease-stained at the bottoms from our favorite Italian spot. He was wearing his usual worn leather jacket, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His jaw was tight, and the casual slump of his shoulders felt forced.
"Traffic on the I-95 is a nightmare, even on a Sunday," Julian replied, stepping past me into the foyer.
He didn't make his usual joke about my domestic suburban life. He didn't ask how Frederick was doing. He just walked straight to the kitchen island and set the bags down with a heavy, definitive thud.
"Amy!" I called out toward the stairs. "Food's here!"
"Coming!" her voice floated down, bright and untroubled.
I turned back to Julian, lowering my voice. "What is it? You look like you just saw a ghost."
Julian glanced toward the staircase, ensuring Amy wasn't in earshot yet, before reaching deep into the pocket of his jacket. He didn't pull out extra napkins or a receipt. He pulled out a sleek, black burner phone. The kind we hadn't used in over a year. The kind that meant someone was dead, or someone was coming.
"This was tucked inside the bottom of the takeout bag when I picked it up," Julian whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with a chilling intensity. "The guy behind the counter didn't put it there. Someone bumped into me on my way out the door."
"We're supposed to be clear," I said, a cold knot forming in my stomach. "The federal archives are sealed. The leverage is gone."
"Apparently, someone didn't get the memo," Julian said grimly.
Before I could process the sheer terror of that statement, the burner phone in his hand lit up. It vibrated violently against the marble countertop. An unknown number.
Amy’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.
May you like
"Hide it," I hissed.
Julian seamlessly slid the phone back into his pocket just as Amy walked into the kitchen, her smile radiant and completely oblivious to the fact that the storm we had so carefully survived was already blowing back through our front door.
