Page 43 of Bearly Out Loud

James removed his glasses. Cleaned them on his henley. When James Wixx removed his glasses and cleaned them, the room’s temperature dropped three degrees. This was not a nervous habit. This was a man switching modes.

“Walk me through the chain.”

Nari did. She’d printed each step. Highlighted the connections. Built the timeline on a separate page with dates and arrows because James processed information in linear chains, and she’d been watching her father build legal arguments her entire life.

James laid the pages out in sequence. Read them once. Read them again. His mouth thinned to a line Nari recognized from childhood—the expression he wore when opposing counsel filed a bad-faith motion and he was deciding which of twelve possible responses would cause maximum devastation.

“Who had access to your grandfather’s unpublished materials?”

“Family.” Nari counted on her fingers. “You, Mom, Baa-chan, me. And the archive.”

“The archive that Tomas Crane catalogued for six years.”

The name landed in the kitchen like a stone in still water. Tomas Crane. The archivist who’d spent half a decade handling Hideo’s unpublished work with reverence and white cotton gloves. Who’d proposed a full restoration of The Forgotten Gate and been declined. Who’d left the Wixx estate’s employ three years ago with a handshake and a reference letter and, apparently, a camera full of stolen genius.

“We gave him access to everything.” Akemi’s voice was quiet. “The sketchbooks, the voice notes, the unfinished manuscripts. We trusted him with Papa’s legacy.”

“We trusted him because he loved the work.” James put his glasses back on. Picked up his pen. Started making notes in the margin of Nari’s timeline—short, clipped annotations in his precise handwriting. “Love and loyalty aren’t the same thing. I’ve seen enough IP cases to know the most dangerous thieves are the true believers. They don’t think they’re stealing. They think they’re saving.”

Nari watched her father work. The transformation was complete—James, the weekend dad, had been replaced by James the entertainment lawyer, and entertainment lawyers did not comfort. They documented.

Akemi turned another page of Hideo’s notebook. Studied a sketch. Looked at the corresponding Voidborn concept art. Looked back.

“Your father is very attractive when he’s angry.”

Nari’s head snapped up. “Mom. We’re in crisis.”

“I can acknowledge crisis and attraction simultaneously.” Akemi didn’t look up from the sketches. Her voice was serene.

James, still writing: “Thank you, darling.”

This family. This impossible, inappropriate, devastatingly timed family.

Nari pressed her palms flat on the table. “Dad. What do we need?”

James capped his pen. Set it down. The list came without hesitation—he’d been building it while writing. “Authentication of the sketchbooks. We need three independent experts to verify Hideo’s hand and date the materials. The voice notes—digitized, timestamped, chain of custody documented. A forensic analysis of Meridian’s corporate filings to establish the Mercer connection on the record. And Crane’s employment records from our estate files.”

“That’s a legal case.”

“That’s the beginning of one.” He looked at her over his glasses. “You said Keiser Entertainment licensed the Voidborn concept. Dojin Keiser.”

Nari held his gaze. “Yes.”

“Does he know what he bought?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so, or you don’t want to think so?”

The question hit a nerve James couldn’t have known existed—or could have, because James Wixx missed nothing about his daughter, which was both his finest quality and the most irritating thing about him.

“I asked him directly. About the pitch. Where it came from. He told me Meridian, external acquisition, standard process. His answer was clean. No hesitation, no deflection.” She crossed her arms. “I’ve spent weeks performing across a recording booth from this man. I’ve heard him talk about the project, about the characters, about creative direction. His investment is genuine. If he knew the source material was stolen, he’s the best liar I’ve ever encountered, and I grew up around entertainment lawyers.”

James almost smiled. Almost. “High bar.”

“The highest.”

Akemi closed the sketchbook with careful hands. “We should call your grandmother.”