"Well," his father said. He looked almost amused. "I thought you'd be home in bed. Sulking about that killer."
Noel felt his hand tighten at his side.
He kept his face pleasant.
'Rowan is not the killer, you old fart. But it's not my place to say it. Not today. I'll wait till the day you all realise it yourselves.'
"I wanted to speak with you, Father," he said. "When you have a moment."
His father studied him for a second — reading something in his face.
He nodded.
He gestured to Lucien, who produced the key and unlocked the office door. They went in.
.
.
His father's office was large and well-ordered — the desk clear, the shelves arranged. Everything was perfect, just the way the old man loved it. His father removed his heavy coat and hung it before sitting. Alaric stood near the window. Lucien near the door.
His father looked at him across the desk.
"What is it?" he said. "I hope it's not something about that boy or..."
