Dad stopped looking him in the eye.

Each day passed with no word about Matisse’s pending charges. The weight of the unknown hung heavy over his family. Dad took to staying at work late, and Nicole threw herself into gardening. Genevieve was gone, at Mem’s, and Matisse drew the curtains in his room, ignored his friends and the summer. He didn’t ride his bike, and he didn’t open the letters that piled up from Ole Miss.

It didn’t matter who his roommate was, if all he had to look forward to was a cellmate.

In his room, he didn’t have to encounter Dad’s disappointment and anger or Nicole’s confusion.

Over and over, he questioned his decision. What was he thinking? Was he really taking the fall for Dad and Rene?

On the third day of darkness, Nicole burst through his door without warning. “Get up.”

Midday sunlight flooded the room, elevating Matisse’s headache from throbbing to piercing. “Mom. Leave it.” One eye closed, he made his way to the window to flick the curtains shut, but Nicole stood in his way, hands wrapped around the material, arms wide.

“No. Matisse, no. You’re afraid. I get it. You made a mistake, and you’re going to have to pay for it. But until that time begins, you will be a productive member of society and this family. Boudreaus do not fold under pressure.” As she stepped away from the curtains, she slapped a hand between his shoulder blades. “Stand up straight, Lord Byron, and take a shower. Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”

He raked his fingers through his greasy hair, grimacing in disgust. “Mom.”

She twirled her hand in the air, dismissing his protests. “Ten minutes.”

“Fine,” he ground out, kicking one of his boots out of the way. With more force than was necessary, he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Nicole gave him no peace if he disobeyed her. It was a lesson he’d learned early in his life. No matter how hard he dug in, she dug in harder.

Distracted, he went through the motions of showering. An outfit was waiting for him on the sink when he pushed the curtain aside, so he got dressed. Unsurprisingly, Nicole sat on his bed, waiting for him to finish.

“Now what?” he asked, rolling up the sleeves of the t-shirt before he slicked back his hair.

His mother regarded him with an amused smile, before she stood and cupped his chin her hand. “So tough, my boy.” Tsking, she opened his door and indicated he should leave. “But you don’t fool me.”

He followed her downstairs and into the foyer where she opened the front door. In the driveway sat his motorcycle, chrome gleaming, leather shined to perfection. Lifting an eyebrow, he faced Nicole. “I’m going to jail, so you detailed my bike?”

“Get out of here,” she said, smile disappearing. “Go for a ride and clear your mind.” She stepped closer, craning her neck, and he realized his mother was not as strong as she pretended. Dark circles were covered with makeup, but in the sunlight, he caught the sparkle of concealer, and fine lines branched around the corners of her eyes. “Matisse, I want you to think about what you’re doing. I am your mother, and I will protect you. No matter what you do. Do you understand me? There is nothing I won’t do for you.”

He did understand, but he also knew there was only so much she could protect him from. Especially now. There were forces more powerful than Nicole Boudreau, whether she recognized them or not.

Leaning down, he busked her cheek with a quick kiss. His helmet was hot, the black plastic burned his palms, but he put it over his head. Strap tight under his chin, he slung his leg over the side and started her up.

As soon as the vibration moved through him, he let out a breath. Like mist parting, he began to think clearly again, unencumbered by his fear and anxiety. Giving his mother a two-fingered wave, he revved the engine and released the brake, tires spinning against the cobblestone.

It didn’t matter where he went, as long as he was going fast. Visor down, no one would know who he was as he tore through town and along the coast. Stopping only to fill up the tank, he sped west toward Louisiana. Interstate 10 stayed close to the water, but would bring him right into New Orleans.

Most of his life was spent doubly sheltered. First, by his family’s position and wealth. He didn’t have to work particularly hard for anything. Second, by his natural inclination to keep himself distant from people and their emotions.

For the first time, none of these things would protect him. He’d worked hard to understand people, and now he knew exactly how his choice would impact his family.

And they couldn’t protect him from the ramifications of his actions. There was no buying off a federal judge. If they decided he would go to trial, and he was found guilty, that’d be it for him.

The very least he could do, if he was going down, was to do it alone.

By the time he’d come to the decision, he’d bypassed New Orleans and was within minutes of Lafayette. He followed the signs leading him to the city, but the nagging worry was back, and not even riding past the high rises to the outskirts of the city could distract him from what waited ahead of him.

Stopping at a light, he leaned back, flipped up his visor and stretched. He’d been hunched over for three hours, and his back was screaming. This bike was made for speed, not necessarily distance. If he didn’t go to prison, maybe he could get something new.

Next to him, a horn honked, and he startled. A white convertible filled with girls pulled up next to him. The girls inside waved and blew him kisses. For a moment, he stared at them, brain misfiring as he tried to remember the appropriate response. Settling on a wave, he lifted his fingers. The girls dissolved into giggles before speeding off when the light changed.

Shaking his head, he flipped the visor back down on his helmet and tore off after them, passing them at the entrance to Route 167 to head back to Mississippi. A quick toot of a horn made him smile, and then he was driving east, the sun at his back and the wind in his face.

Each mile to Bijoux Shores only made him edgier, and by the time he rolled down the cobblestone drive, he was no better off than he’d been in the morning. The only thing that had changed was his acceptance of a prison sentence.

Parked in front of his garage bay door was a silver Mercedes, Bentley Rivard’s car. He sat, slowly lifting off his helmet to stare at the car and what this meant. When he got inside, there would be answers to the questions that had plagued him for six hours. The next steps would be clear.

Right now, he might go to jail or he might not. Once he walked into the house, however, there’d be no more might.

With the helmet under his arm, he strode to the entrance, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. He hadn’t closed the door behind him before his mother called him to tell him they were in the study.

“Oh good,” he snarked as he came through the door. “We’re drinking.” Nicole, Bentley, Dad, and Dad’s lawyer, sipped cocktails, like it was social hour. Irritation crept along his spine, and he narrowed his eyes at the adults. “Don’t concern yourself about me. It’s only my future you’re deciding under the influence.”

“We’re celebrating, Matisse,” Nicole said. She poured amber liquid over ice and handed it to him.

The glass was cool against his lips as he swallowed a mouthful of alcohol. It burned the way to his stomach. “What’s the verdict?” He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at his father, whose face was unnaturally pale. Whatever the decision was, it wasn’t a good one.

“They took your computer today, hoping they’ll be able to find traces of whatever you deleted, since you don’t remember what it was,” Bentley said.

So there was the source of his father’s pallor. It shouldn’t be there. The patent should be in the ether, but if this experience taught him anything, it was that he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. All this bullshit subterfuge would be for nothing if they discovered he’d covered for his dad.

“Oh,” he answered. “Good luck to them.”

“Dammit, Matisse.” Dad pounded his hand on the table, rattling the ice in the glasses. “Be serious for one minute.”

Matisse snapped. “I am fucking serious, Dad. Good luck to them, and good luck to us. Because—”

“Shut up!” his father roared. Glass hit the wall and shattered, splattering alcohol over Matisse and Bentley, as he swept the papers and glasses onto the floor with his arm. Calmly, Bentley removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dusted his labels.

“Guillaume!” Nicole cried, shocked.

“Do you know what he’s done? He’s ruined us, Nicole. Everything.” His face crumpled, and he collapsed into the high-backed leather chair. “We’ll lose everything.”

“We’re celebrating losing everything, then?” Matisse threw back his head, swallowing the rest of the alcohol. “Great idea.”

Bentley cleared his throat. “They charged you with a lesser offense. Because you’re a minor, the prosecutor will not pursue felony charges. But you’ll be banned from computer use until you’re twenty-one and you’ll have community service.”

“Has the deal already been offered?” Matisse eyed the stained papers on the floor.

“Yes.” Bending to shuffle through the papers, his lawyer picked up a stapled bundle. “Here it is.”

“Where do I sign?” If it was possible to diminish the fallout from this whole thing, he wanted to get it done fast.

“This is for us to look over tonight. Tomorrow we’ll sign with a notary.”

“First thing,” Matisse said. “As soon as possible.”

Nicole touched his arm. “It’s going to be okay.”

His father still stared at the desk blotter, shaking his head. “It’s not going to matter.” His tone was ominous, and Matisse shuddered. Dad’s voice was distant, but he sounded so sure of the outcome and it turning out bad for all of them.

“I’ll be back in the morning.” Gathering the papers, Bentley took Dad’s tone as his sign to leave, and Dad’s lawyer scurried behind him.

Nicole walked them out, but her face warned Dad and him not to move. Matisse slid down in a leather chair, splaying his legs in front of him.

“Nothing to say to me?” It was time to call Dad on his shit.

“What do you expect me to say? Nice job? Thanks for fucking up?” Dad dropped his head into his hand and rubbed his forehead before glancing up at him.

Matisse huffed out a breath. “You’re the genius, Dad. Why didn’t you just take care of it yourself?”

“Don’t you think I would have? I had no one else I trusted.”

With his words hanging in the air, Matisse felt his anger waver. “I’m not going to tell them.”

“They’ll find it anyway,” Dad countered.

“I deleted everything, wiped it. There’s hope.”

Snorting, he shook his head. “No, there’s not.”

“I won’t tell anyone you had anything to do with it.” Nicole’s heels clacked on the wooden floor, and Matisse tumbled over the rest of his words. “I’ll take responsibility for it.”

Dad opened his mouth, eyes wide. Whether to disagree, Matisse never knew because his mother sat next to them, and leaning forward, plucked the glass of brandy from Dad’s hand. Sipping coolly, she regarded Dad then him, and narrowed her eyes. “Go to bed, Matisse. Bentley will be here early.”

He paused, waiting for Dad to tell him to wait, or make a plan—something that wouldn’t leave him spinning his wheels all night.

But he didn’t.

Back to Matisse, he merely made himself another drink at the wet bar.

“Okay.” He wiped his palms across his jeans but stood and kissed his mother. “Night.” Dad’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t say a word, so Matisse left.

The night passed the way he knew it would, wide-eyed and sweaty. He showered as soon as the sun was up, anxious to get everything over and done. Bleary-eyed, he sat in the kitchen, coffee in hand while he stared out at the back lawn. His parents arrived soon after him, both looking tired and drained. They sipped their coffee wordlessly, neither muttering a greeting to Matisse.

The doorbell echoed through the house, and he jumped.

“I’ll get it,” Nicole said tiredly.

“It’s okay.” Matisse got to his feet and put a hand on her shoulder to urge her back to her chair. “I can do it.”

It was Bentley, alone. The laissez-faire attorney was gone, and in his place was a frowning, serious man. “Where are your parents?”

“Kitchen,” Matisse answered and leapt out of his way when Bentley stormed past him. Hurrying to keep up, he made it into the kitchen in time to see the attorney slam a newspaper on the table.

“Jesus, Guillaume, you should have told me.”

Inching forward, Matisse read the headlines over Bentley’s shoulder. It was the section of the Times-Picayune, and the company was front and center, Matisse’s drama splaying across the page along with charts graphing the matching fall in stock prices.

Almost as soon as he’d finished reading, Nicole’s phone began to ring, and Dad’s. There was a knock on the door and Matisse, in a move to escape both the information swirling in his head and the noise of the kitchen, trekked out to let in the notary.

But it wasn’t the notary at the door.

Someone stuck a microphone in his face, and a blinding flash sent him reeling back. One voice after another called out his name, screaming questions. The cacophony overwhelmed him, and he held onto the door to stay upright.

“No comment!” Dad jumped in front of him, muscling the door shut while Bentley pulled Matisse back into the cool foyer. The heavy door immediately blocked the reporters’ voices, but it couldn’t stop their questions echoing in Matisse’s mind.

Did you steal technology for your father?

Why did you hack the patent office?

What did you take?

Someone pounded on the door, and his father whipped out his phone, calling into his company to request security to come to the house.

“I’m sorry,” Matisse said, tripping toward the stairs. As soon as he hit the first one, he sat.

They weren’t giving up. One reporter appeared in the window, rapping on the glass. Nicole whipped the curtains shut and cursed under her breath. “Go upstairs, Matisse. Stay away from the windows. Don’t answer your phone. Got it?”

“Got it,” he repeated distractedly, taking one backward step upstairs before hauling ass to his bedroom. His room was at the back of the house, but he still followed Nicole’s directions. Lucky for him, since he’d already been in a dark place, he hadn’t bothered to open the curtains this morning.

He dropped his head into his hands. He’d fucked up so bad. Thought he was so smart. There was no way to fix this. The most he could hope for was someone figuring out how to minimize the damage.