Page 156 of The Rules

Then—“Tell me, brother,” Julian went on, voice dipped in sugar and disdain, “are you really sure you’re the steady one in this equation?”

Ben tensed. A flicker in his eyes—heat, restraint, something sharp. But still, he held.

Julian raised his glass again, slow and easy, eyes glinting.

Ben’s voice came low. Final.

“Watch it.”

That made him smile—wider this time.

And that smile said it all.

The air between them shifted—thickening with something heavier than whiskey and unspoken history.

Ben leaned in, forearms braced on the table, his voice dropping low. This was it. The moment of truth. The reason he’d swallowed his pride and made the call.

“It’s Crawford,” he said, measured but grim. “We’re trying to reopen a case.”

That did it.

The smirk didn’t disappear, not fully—but something flickered behind his brother’s eyes. A stillness crept in. Just a second. A pause in the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the glass. A fractional tightening at the corner of his mouth.

Ben caught it. Of course he did. He’d spent a lifetime learning to read those tells.

“Crawford,” Julian repeated, slower this time.

A beat. Then a soft huff—low, derisive.

“That’s bold,” came the reply, something shifting in his tone. “Stupid, but bold.”

Ben didn’t flinch. He just kept going. The name hung between them like a trigger, pulled and echoing.

“We have reason to believe he buried evidence,” he said, voice steady. “We just can’t prove it. Every time we get close, the trail disappears.”

Across the table, Julian transformed. The playful veneer slipped away like a discarded mask, revealing something lethal beneath. What remained made Ben's instincts bristle—something colder, with edges that could slice to the bone. The kind of surgical focus that dissected intentions without mercy.

Then, finally—“So what you’re really saying,” he murmured, just loud enough to force him to lean in, “is that you need someone who doesn’t follow the rules.”

Ben didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

They both knew.

He felt the weight of Julian's gaze like a physical pressure. His brother had always been able to strip away pretenses, to see the core of things that others missed. It was what made him so dangerous—and so valuable.

"You sure about this?" Julian asked, his voice dropping lower, the usual mockery giving way to something sharper, more dangerous.

Ben didn't answer immediately. The question wasn't just about Crawford. It was about everything—about the careful walls he'd built between himself and Julian's world, about the line he'd sworn never to cross.

A pause stretched between them, heavy with implication.

"You've spent your whole life convincing yourself you're different. Better. Above it," Julian continued.

"You ask for my help, ... and that illusion dies."

A dull ache settled in Ben’s gut. It wasn’t fear—Julian had never earned that. Not even at his worst.