Chapter 7 - THE BROTHER WHO LIED ABOUT OUR MOTHER'S LAST NIGHT
“Were you there?”
I placed the hospital visitor record on Caspian's desk.
My brother looked down.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then he slowly removed his glasses.
“Yes.”
The admission hurt more than I'd expected.
“You told me you were in London.”
“I was supposed to be.”
“You told me you couldn't reach the hospital.”
“Aara—”
“Were you with Mom when she died?”
His face crumpled.
“No.”
I folded my arms.
“Then why did you lie?”
Caspian sat down.
“I came home because she asked me to.”
He explained that our mother had contacted him privately.
She was frightened about missing money from the Foundation.
She wanted him to review several investment arrangements without involving our father.
“Why not Dad?”
“She said she wasn't sure who had access to his financial authorization.”
I stared.
“And you believed her?”
“I believed she was scared.”
Caspian opened his desk drawer.
Inside was a thin black notebook.
My mother's handwriting covered the pages.
“She gave me this.”
I took it carefully.
Most pages contained dates, account references, and brief observations.
One sentence was underlined twice.
The signatures are genuine, but the instructions are not.
“What does that mean?”
“Someone was getting Dad to authorize transactions without explaining what he was really signing.”
I looked toward the window.
That sounded like Eleanor.
Or Julian.
Or someone else.
“Why keep it from me?”
Caspian's voice softened.
“Because Mom asked me to protect you from it.”
I shook my head.
“I was twenty-three when she died. I wasn't a child.”
“I know.”
“You let me think she died without seeing you.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he told me something I'd never heard.
When he arrived at the hospital, Mom had been awake.
She'd asked him whether I was still painting.
I used to paint landscapes.
I stopped after she died.
“She said you were the only person in the family who still believed beautiful things could survive ugly circumstances.”
My throat tightened.
Caspian continued.
“She gave me the notebook and told me not to trust Eleanor.”
“Did she give you the necklace?”
He shook his head.
“No. She said she'd already hidden it.”
I studied his face.
For the first time, I believed him.
Not because he was my brother.
Because he finally looked like a man telling a truth that had been hurting him for years.
“Why didn't you tell Dad?”
“I did. After the funeral.”
“And?”
“He said Eleanor had been dismissed. He asked me to leave it alone.”
That was another silence between us.
Another decision made for me.
I closed the notebook.
“No more secrets, Caspian.”
He nodded.
“No more.”
That evening, we visited Eleanor's former office.
The silver key Saraphina had given me opened a cabinet in a rented commercial suite.
Inside were archived correspondence, tax records, and a small leather case.
The case contained three items.
A photograph of Julian at twenty-five.
An old theater ticket.
And a folded letter addressed to my mother.
The ticket was for a charity performance at Lincoln Center.
I recognized the date.
It was the night Julian claimed we first met.
But our first meeting had taken place at the bookstore two weeks later.
Caspian unfolded the letter.
It was written by Eleanor.
Helena,
You were right to question the transfers. But you misunderstand who benefits from them. The boy is not the beneficiary. He is the instrument.
Please meet me before Augustus signs anything further.
There was no signature beyond Eleanor's initials.
I reread one sentence.
The boy is not the beneficiary.
“Julian,” I whispered.
Caspian nodded slowly.
“Maybe.”
We examined the photograph again.
Julian stood beside a younger Eleanor.
Behind them was a sign advertising a scholarship program funded by the Devo Foundation.
I remembered hearing about that program.
My mother had created it for students from families experiencing hardship.
“Julian was a scholarship recipient,” I said.
Caspian looked surprised.
“You remember?”
“Mom once mentioned helping a brilliant young man who wanted to study finance.”
Suddenly Julian's obsession with wealthy families made more sense.
He hadn't always been rich.
Maybe he had spent his entire adult life trying to escape a childhood he hated.
That didn't excuse what he'd done.
But it explained why power mattered so much to him.
We were preparing to leave when Caspian noticed something inside the leather case.
A folded photograph tucked beneath the lining.
It showed my mother standing outside our old family estate.
Beside her stood Eleanor.
And between them stood a boy.
Perhaps twelve years old.
He held a small wooden sailboat.
On the back, my mother had written:
THE CHILD WE PROMISED TO PROTECT.
Caspian studied the boy's face.
Then he looked at me.
“Aara, that's not Julian.”
I leaned closer.
The boy had dark hair and familiar gray eyes.
Eyes I'd seen every morning for three years.
Caspian whispered:
“That's Julian's younger brother.”
May you like
And beneath the photograph was a name neither of us had heard before.
NATHANIEL VANCE — MISSING BENEFICIARY.
