What He Did With the Truth
He didn't move.
That was the thing she noticed. He had been moving since she walked in — restless, controlled movement, the kind that barely showed, the pacing of a man who processed things physically. But when she said yes, it stopped.
He stood completely still.
She watched him take it in. Whatever he'd prepared for, whatever version of this he'd built in his mind during two years of investigators and estate inquiries and whatever the rest of those five years had been for him — this was still a different weight. She could see it land.
"A son or a daughter?" he asked. His voice was even. With effort.
"A son."
Something moved across his face that she couldn't name. Not a recognisable emotion, or not one she'd seen on him before.
"How old?"
"He'll be five
