Chapter 5 - THE BROTHER I WAS TAUGHT TO HATE
I hit Julian before anyone could stop me.
He went down hard.
Vincent grabbed me.
“Preston!”
I tore free.
Julian wiped blood from his mouth.
“I knew you’d do that.”
“You have five seconds.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“Four.”
“You didn’t poison her.”
“Three.”
“But she died because of something carrying your signature.”
That stopped me.
Julian stood slowly.
“Now will you listen?”
We moved into the carriage house.
Oliver stayed with Emma in the adjoining room.
I wanted him nowhere near this conversation.
Julian placed a folder on the table.
“Two years ago, Serena discovered that Hale Medical Logistics was transporting experimental oncology drugs through shell companies.”
“We don’t own Hale Medical Logistics.”
“You did.”
“Impossible.”
“You signed the acquisition.”
He slid a document toward me.
My signature was at the bottom.
I remembered the paperwork.
A stack Vincent had brought me during negotiations with a casino union.
I had signed thirty documents that night.
“What was being transported?”
“An unapproved compound called VXR-17.”
Vincent frowned.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
Julian looked at me.
“Serena found out because her foundation funded a pediatric research program connected to the same pharmaceutical company.”
“What does this have to do with her death?”
“She was sick before the hospital.”
I knew that.
Headaches.
Dizziness.
Fainting.
Doctors had called it an autoimmune disorder.
Julian continued.
“She wasn’t sick naturally.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What are you saying?”
“Someone exposed her to VXR-17.”
“No.”
“I have laboratory records.”
“Then why didn’t you come to me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The night she died.”
I remembered.
Three missed calls from Julian.
I had ignored them because we had been fighting for months.
The next morning, money disappeared from an offshore account.
Everyone believed Julian took it.
“I didn’t steal your money,” he said.
“Then where did it go?”
“Serena moved it.”
I stared at him.
“She was building an escape fund.”
“For herself?”
“For Emma. Oliver. And you.”
That made no sense.
“Why would I need to escape my own organization?”
“Because she discovered your father’s organization never became yours.”
Julian looked toward Vincent.
Vincent’s expression hardened.
Julian continued.
“There’s another structure underneath it. Old money. Judges. Corporate boards. Men who don’t carry guns because they hire people who do.”
“The Consortium,” Vincent whispered.
I looked at him.
“You know that name?”
“Stories. Your father mentioned it once.”
Julian nodded.
“Arthur Hale worked for them.”
My father had spent his life pretending everyone worked for him.
The possibility that he had answered to someone else would have destroyed him.
“Serena found proof,” Julian said. “Thomas Carter’s ledger.”
Emma entered.
She had heard the name.
“You know where it is?” she asked.
Julian looked at her.
“No. But Serena believed your father divided the information.”
“Divided how?”
“One part was physical. One part was memorized.”
I looked toward Oliver.
“No.”
Julian’s silence confirmed it.
“No.”
“Serena turned pieces of the ledger into stories, songs, games. Things Oliver could remember without understanding.”
Rage burned through me.
“She used our son as a vault?”
“She was trying to protect him.”
“She made him a target.”
“She was already dying.”
The words landed like a blade.
Julian lowered his voice.
“She knew.”
I couldn’t speak.
“She knew she had been poisoned. She knew the people responsible would search the house. She thought nobody would suspect a six-year-old remembered pieces of evidence.”
Emma covered her mouth.
“That’s why the song matters.”
Julian nodded.
“The lullaby is a key.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know.”
I walked away.
For two years, I had mourned Serena as if death had simply taken her.
Now I understood she had spent her final months fighting something alone.
And she had not trusted me enough to tell me.
Or perhaps she had tried.
How many conversations had I interrupted for business?
How many nights had she said, “Preston, we need to talk,” while I told her tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
The most expensive word in the English language.
Emma approached me.
“She trusted you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She married you.”
“She hid all of this.”
“Because she knew what you would do.”
I turned.
“What would I do?”
“Exactly what you’re thinking about doing now.”
She looked at the gun beneath my coat.
“Kill everyone until the pain feels useful.”
I stared at her.
No one spoke to me that way.
Not twice.
“You think you know me?”
“No.”
She looked toward Oliver.
“But I know what he needs.”
“And what is that?”
“A father who comes home.”
I had no answer.
Julian opened another file.
“There’s more.”
Inside were photographs.
Crane.
Malcolm Shaw.
Carlo Vescari.
And a man I recognized instantly.
Senator Elias Whitmore.
One of Serena’s foundation trustees.
A man who had delivered the eulogy at her funeral.
“These men met three days before Serena died,” Julian said.
“Where?”
“Lake Geneva.”
Vincent studied the photograph.
“Who took these?”
“Serena.”
My wife had been investigating them herself.
Julian removed one final photograph.
It showed Serena leaving a hotel.
Beside her was Emma.
Behind them stood a man in a gray coat.
I leaned closer.
Crane.
“He followed them,” Julian said.
Emma went pale.
“I never saw him.”
“He saw you.”
That explained why Crane knew who she was.
I turned to Julian.
“Why come back tonight?”
“Because Crane contacted me.”
Everyone went still.
“What did he want?”
“The book.”
“You told him we had it?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Julian reached into his pocket.
My guards aimed immediately.
He slowly removed a phone.
A message glowed on the screen.
MIDNIGHT. OLD HALE WAREHOUSE 17. BRING EMMA CARTER OR THE BOY LEARNS WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO HIS MOTHER.
Emma read it.
“No.”
“You’re not going,” I said.
“It asks for me.”
“And it gets me.”
Julian shook his head.
“That’s what they want.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because Crane isn’t the person running this.”
“Who is?”
Julian looked at Vincent.
Then at me.
“I don’t know.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A distorted voice said, “Mr. Hale, check the television.”
Vincent turned on the security monitor.
The screen flickered.
Live video appeared.
Dr. Crane sat in a chair inside Warehouse 17.
His hands were tied.
Blood covered his shirt.
Someone stood behind him wearing a black mask.
Crane looked directly into the camera.
“Preston,” he gasped. “Don’t come here.”
The masked figure placed a gun against his head.
Crane screamed the next words.
“SERENA’S KILLER IS ALREADY IN YOUR HOUSE!”
May you like
The screen went black.
Then somewhere upstairs, Oliver began screaming.
