Chapter 13 - The Girl in the Glass Case
The rain started around sunset, battering against the cottage windows like handfuls of thrown gravel.
Outside, the red taillights of the state trooper vehicle glowed through the thick coastal mist.
Julian was in the kitchen chopping onions for dinner, whistling a low, melancholic melody.
Every chop of his chef's knife against the butcher block sounded like a miniature guillotine falling.
Maya sat at the island counter, watching his hands, watching the subtle rhythm of his shoulders.
He looked completely relaxed, entirely devoted, the picture-perfect husband who had rescued her from ruin.
"Julian?" she asked softly over the sizzle of butter in the skillet.
"Yes, sweetheart?" he answered without turning around, tossing garlic into the pan.
"Why did you choose Montauk?"
Julian chuckled softly, using the flat of the blade to scoop up chopped celery.
"Because it’s quiet. Because the city was suffocating after everything that happened with the trial."
"You never came here when we were dating," Maya pointed out, her eyes tracking every muscle twitch in his neck.
"My family had a summer compound out here when I was a boy," he said casually.
He stirred the pan, the rich aroma of garlic and rosemary filling the open kitchen.
"My father used to bring me fishing off the south spit before he died."
"Arthur died when you were twelve, right?" Maya asked.
Julian’s hand paused over the stove for half a second.
A tiny, almost imperceptible hesitation.
"Yeah. Heart failure on a business trip to Hong Kong."
"Strange," Maya murmured, leaning her elbows against the marble island. "The coroner's report I read last month said something else."
Julian turned around slowly, the wooden spoon still dripping oil into the hot pan.
His expression wasn't angry; it was calm, almost predatory in its stillness.
"You read my father’s coroner’s report?" he asked softly.
"Victoria left a lot of files in the penthouse safe," Maya said, holding his gaze without flinching.
"His body was recovered forty miles off the coast of Maine. Traumatic drowning. No signs of heart failure."
Julian set the wooden spoon down on the counter with a quiet, deliberate tap.
He reached over and turned off the gas flame under the skillet.
The hiss of the stove died instantly, leaving only the sound of rain lashing the glass.
"Why are you bringing this up right now, Maya?"
"Because Victoria told me something on the boat, Julian," Maya lied, leaning forward.
Julian’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, the kitchen light casting deep shadows across his cheekbones.
"She told me your father didn't drown by accident."
Julian walked around the island, his footsteps nearly silent against the hardwood flooring.
He stopped two feet from her, towering over her stool, radiating heat and quiet intensity.
"My mother was a pathological liar, Maya. You saw what she did to you. She threw you into black water."
"Then why did you open an account for me in Zurich six years ago?" Maya asked, throwing the words like a knife.
The air in the room instantly turned to sub-zero ice.
Julian didn't gasp. He didn't blink.
He merely stared down at her, his eyes hardening into polished obsidian.
"Where did you get that document?" he asked, his voice dropping an entire octave.
"It came in the mail today," Maya whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Who are you, Julian?"
Julian let out a slow, tired breath, running a hand through his dark hair.
"I opened that account to protect you," he said softly.
"Protect me from what? I didn't even know you existed six years ago!"
"You didn't know me," Julian whispered, stepping into her personal space and placing his palms on either side of her hips.
"But I knew you, Maya. I have known you since the day you pulled my sister out of that freezing reservoir in upstate New York."
Maya froze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Your sister?" Maya stammered. "You don't have a sister."
Julian gave a bittersweet, chilling smile that made the hairs on Maya’s arms stand straight up.
May you like
"Her name was Clara," Julian whispered against her cheek. "And she was supposed to die that day."
***
