Chapter 3 - The Brother Who Was Buried
"That's impossible."
Julian said it three times.
The first time, he sounded shocked.
The second time, angry.
The third time, he sounded as though he was begging someone to prove him wrong.
Marcus enlarged the security footage.
A man in a dark coat entered the pantry through a rear service door.
His face was partly obscured by a baseball cap.
But he turned toward the camera for a fraction of a second.
Julian grabbed the tablet.
"That's Richard."
I looked over his shoulder.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
The same sharp jaw.
The same dark eyes.
The same scar crossing the left eyebrow.
Victoria stood above us, still guarded by two officers.
She had stopped laughing.
"Where did you get that footage?" she asked.
Marcus looked up.
"From a camera you apparently forgot existed."
"I had nothing to do with that man."
Julian turned toward her.
"You knew."
"No."
"You knew Richard was alive."
Victoria's lips trembled.
"Julian, listen to me."
"You let me stand beside his grave."
"You let me believe my brother died in a plane crash."
"That plane was never recovered."
She said it quietly.
Every person in the foyer heard her.
Julian stared at her.
"What?"
Victoria closed her eyes.
A detective stepped forward.
"My name is Detective Rachel Monroe."
"Nobody is answering any more questions until we separate the witnesses."
She looked toward Victoria.
"Mrs. Ashford, we're going to need you to come with us."
Victoria lifted her chin.
"Am I under arrest?"
"Not at this moment."
"Then I'm calling my lawyer."
"You're welcome to do that."
Two officers escorted her downstairs.
As she passed me, she leaned close enough for only me to hear.
"Your father should have burned those papers."
Then she walked away.
I wanted to grab her.
Instead, I stood still.
Because for the first time, I understood that Victoria's knowledge of my father wasn't a bluff.
She knew something.
Something that connected his death to the Ashford family.
Detective Monroe questioned me in the morning room.
She asked about my employment.
My father.
The video.
The decanter.
She wrote down everything.
Then she asked a question I hadn't expected.
"Why were you recording the pantry?"
"Because I saw Victoria entering it with an amber vial two days ago."
"Did you see her put anything into the wine then?"
"No."
"So today you decided to watch her."
"Yes."
"How?"
I hesitated.
The detective noticed.
"Elena."
"I need the truth."
I took a breath.
"I used a small camera hidden beside the pantry clock."
"Your phone received the live recording."
"Where's the camera now?"
"In the pantry."
She stood immediately.
We hurried toward the service hallway.
The clock was still hanging above the storage cabinets.
But the camera was gone.
Only a tiny square of adhesive remained.
Detective Monroe studied the spot.
"Who else knew?"
"Nobody."
"Think carefully."
I remembered Mrs. Keene, the elderly housekeeper, bringing fresh linens into the hall that afternoon.
And I remembered something else.
She had looked directly at the clock.
"Mrs. Keene might have seen it."
The detective called for an officer.
But before he could leave, Julian appeared in the doorway.
His face was gray.
"I need to speak to Elena."
Monroe shook her head.
"Not while I'm interviewing her."
"It's about her father."
I stood.
The detective studied us both.
Then she said, "Five minutes."
Julian led me into the library.
It smelled of old leather and polished wood.
He stopped before a framed photograph above the fireplace.
Four men stood outside a glass office tower.
Julian's father was in the center.
Beside him stood Richard.
And on the far left was my father.
Daniel Morales.
Julian pointed at the photograph.
"Your father wasn't just our financial controller."
"He was my father's oldest friend."
I stared at him.
"They grew up together?"
"Since college."
Julian opened a drawer and removed a sealed envelope.
"My father gave me this six months before he died."
"I was supposed to open it if anything happened to him."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you showing me now?"
Julian's expression broke.
"Because I didn't understand what it meant."
He handed me the envelope.
Inside was a single handwritten note.
If Daniel Morales ever sends his daughter to this house, listen to her.
And never trust the person who tells you Richard is dead.
My knees almost gave way.
Julian reached for the desk.
There was another line at the bottom.
One written in darker ink.
The person responsible for Daniel's death is still living under my roof.
A knock sounded at the library door.
Marcus entered.
"Sir."
"We found Mrs. Keene."
Julian looked up.
"Where?"
"In her apartment above the garage."
May you like
Marcus hesitated.
"She's dead."
