Page 83 of Corrupt

I called Amelia that evening. “I know about Dad.”

She inhaled sharply. “Marcus told you? I’m sorry, Tris. I thought Mummy might have said something.”

“No. That vital piece of information did not make it into her weekly voice notes about Pilates and the bloody gardenias.”

“I think people just know you’re busy.”

“We’re all busy, Milly.”

“Yes, but you’re… you’re always distracted by things.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I was too tired to unpack it.

“When are you next sitting with him during treatment?”

“Friday. I’m coming home from Windsor—”

“I’ll take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t tell him. Just send me the details.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“You too.”

Hanging up, it hit me how wildly different my sister was from Razor’s. It looked as though they were similar in age. But in character? As far apart as I was with Razor. Amelia with her soft voice and pony-club ribbons and “Mummy” and “Daddy.” And Keeley, all fight and swearing and a crawling baby. They existed in different worlds.

Another reason this thing with Razor had to stop.

I went to bed, tried to sleep, and failed at both.

Monday morning, I owed Imogen the truth.

I went into chambers early and told her about my father. And the moment the words left my mouth, I understood exactly why he hadn’t wanted me to know. He knew I’d have to do this. And once I said it aloud in a place like Temple Crown, it became a liability. If word spread, even by accident, the entire Inn would know Charles Hale-Fitzroy was no longer untouchable. A titan coughing blood. A man whose very name usually made opposing counsel flinch. Any hint of weakness would have every ambitious defence barrister sharpening their teeth.

But Imogen listened. Properly. No interruption, no impatience, no soft pity either. She promised it would stay between us, that nothing would leave her office unless I wanted it to. Then she almost withdrew the five-minute opening she’d promised me last Friday. A promise that, after the weekend I’d had, belonged to another life entirely.

But I insisted.

God, I needed it.

Needed to wrench my mind back from something that wasn’t Razor-shaped and raw and still lingering under my skin.

“Let me do it,” I said. “I’d rather be busy.”

She studied me for a long moment, making me feel as if she knew exactly what kind of ruin I’d spent my weekend in. Then she nodded.

“Then you can take the preliminary point in Wilkinson.” She opened a file and slid it towards me. “The Crown is trying to link a series of irregular accounts to organised laundering. We’re challenging that inference.”

I blinked. “You want me to argue against the alleged criminal enterprise?”

“Exactly.” She gave me a pointed look. “Five minutes. Remind the court that suspicion is not evidence, and patterns are not inherently criminal. Those are prosecution leaps, not facts.”

My stomach tightened. Because the language felt too familiar. Gangs. Laundering. Inferences. Things Razor lived inside of.

Imogen continued, oblivious to the punch in my chest. “Focus on alternative explanations: mismanagement, poor bookkeeping, even reckless staff. And make it clear the Crown bears the burden. The defence does not fill gaps in the prosecution’s case.”