Chapter 4 - THE BROTHER I TRUSTED
Vincent had stood beside me at my father's funeral.
He had been the first person I called when Evelyn left.
He had spent three years telling me she never deserved the Moretti name.
Now his name sat at the center of the first real clue.
I called him from the SUV.
He answered on the second ring.
“Adrian?”
“Where are you?”
“Chicago. Why?”
“What were you doing outside Evelyn's doctor's office three years ago?”
Silence.
Not long.
Two seconds, maybe three.
But guilt can live inside two seconds.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Think carefully.”
“Adrian—”
“Think.”
He lowered his voice.
“Mom asked me to follow her.”
Evelyn, sitting across from me, went completely still.
“Why?”
“She thought Evelyn was having an affair.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My pregnant wife was vomiting every morning and Mom assumed an affair?”
“I didn't know she was pregnant.”
“Did you break into my bedroom?”
“No.”
“Did you threaten her?”
“No!”
The panic sounded real.
But fear and innocence aren't the same thing.
Then Vincent said, “You need to come home.”
“Why?”
“Because Mom knows you're in Boston.”
I looked at Marcus.
He frowned.
“How?”
“I don't know,” Vincent said. “She called me ten minutes ago and told me not to answer any questions about Evelyn.”
That was all I needed.
I ended the call.
Evelyn shook her head.
“She's still watching you.”
“Apparently.”
Nathaniel stood near the window inside the house, watching us.
I finally asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Who is he?”
Evelyn's gaze followed mine.
“My older cousin.”
I stared at her.
“You don't have an older cousin.”
“I didn't think I did either.”
Nathaniel came outside carrying a folder.
“My mother and Evelyn's father were half siblings. The family kept it quiet after a very ugly inheritance dispute.”
“And you're a doctor?”
“Trauma surgeon.”
“That explains the house?”
He almost smiled.
“No. The house belonged to my grandfather.”
Then he handed me the folder.
Inside were photographs.
License plates.
Bank transfers.
Security-camera stills.
For nearly three years, Nathaniel had been documenting every suspicious event around Evelyn.
He had built a private investigation without telling Chicago.
“Why?”
“Because when Evelyn arrived in Boston, she was terrified, pregnant with twins, and convinced somebody inside your organization wanted those babies gone.”
The shame was almost unbearable.
I looked through the photographs.
Then stopped.
One image showed a man entering a Boston parking garage six months earlier.
His face was partially turned away.
But I knew the watch on his wrist.
A Patek Philippe my father had given only two people.
Me.
And Vincent.
“That's impossible,” I said.
Nathaniel leaned over my shoulder.
“We enhanced the frame.”
He flipped the page.
The man's face was clearer.
Not Vincent.
Someone older.
Someone I had trusted my entire life.
Marcus whispered a curse.
Because the man following Evelyn wasn't my brother.
It was my father's former consigliere.
May you like
Samuel DeLuca.
The problem was Samuel had supposedly been dead for four years.
