Chapter 2
No balance sheet.
No debt.
“Understood,” I said.
Elias seemed surprised.
Perhaps he had expected an argument.
Perhaps so had I.
Noah reached into his coat pocket.
“I brought you something.”
He placed a small wooden object on the blanket.
It was roughly carved.
A dog.
At least I thought it was a dog.
One leg was longer than the others.
The ears were mismatched.
It looked nothing like Goliath.
“I made it last year,” Noah said. “Grandpa helped with the knife.”
Elias immediately added, “With supervision.”
Noah rolled his eyes.
“I know.”
I picked it up carefully.
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“So you remember who found you.”
I looked at him.
“You mean Goliath?”
“Obviously.”
For the second time that morning, I laughed.
Then Noah’s expression became more serious.
“And maybe you can visit when you’re better.”
Elias looked uncomfortable.
Vincent suddenly found the hallway ceiling fascinating.
I studied the wooden dog.
People invited me places for business.
They invited me because they wanted access.
Money.
Protection.
Influence.
Nobody invited me simply because a child thought I might like to see a dog again.
“I’ll remember,” I said.
Apparently that was enough.
Noah nodded, satisfied.
They left five minutes later.
Goliath looked back once through the closing door.
I kept the wooden dog in my hand for a long time.
Daniel arrived forty-three minutes later.
My brother entered the room like he always entered every room—as though somebody had forgotten to tell him he was not in charge.
He was forty-one, seven years younger than me, though strangers often guessed the difference was smaller. We shared the same dark hair and gray eyes, but nothing else about us had ever been easily confused.
Daniel smiled more.
Spoke more.
Trusted too easily.
At least that was what I had always told him.
He stopped at the foot of my bed.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “You look terrible.”
“Apparently that’s the consensus.”
He crossed the room and hugged me.
I went still.
Daniel stepped back.
“You almost died.”
“So I’m told.”
“Could you try reacting like a human being for five minutes?”
“I am a human being.”
“That remains disputed.”
Vincent quietly walked out.
Coward.
Daniel pulled a chair closer.
“Tell me what happened.”
“You already know.”
“I know four men took you from a road. I know someone arranged the meeting. I know you were found by a child and his dog. I also know Vincent has answered every useful question with a sentence containing the words ‘we’re looking into it.’”
“That sounds like Vincent.”
Daniel leaned forward.
“Was it Marcus?”
The name hung between us.
Marcus Vale.
My adviser.
The man who had persuaded me to travel alone.
The man who had known exactly where I would be.
“Evidence points toward him.”
Daniel sat back.
His face changed.
He had known Marcus almost as long as I had.
“Why?”
“That’s what I intend to learn.”
Daniel looked toward the window.
“I talked to him three days ago.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“About what?”
“You.”
“Be specific.”
“He asked whether you were considering restructuring.”
“Restructuring what?”
“The companies. Holdings. Management.”
“And what did you say?”
“That you never tell me anything until you’ve already decided it.”
“That is usually true.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“Adrian…”
Only my brother called me that when nobody else was around.
To everyone else, I was Adrian Vescari.
To people who feared me, I was the Reaper.
To Daniel, when we were alone, I was still the older brother who once carried him home after he broke his ankle at twelve.
“I think Marcus wanted me to believe you were planning to push me out.”
I watched him.
“Did you believe him?”
“For about ten minutes.”
“Why only ten?”
“Because then I remembered you would push me out to my face.”
I almost smiled.
He was right.
Daniel leaned forward again.
“There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“Marcus said if anything ever happened to you, I needed to be prepared.”
I felt my pulse slow.
Not speed.
Slow.
The dangerous kind of calm.
“What exactly did he say?”
“That leadership couldn’t be uncertain. That everyone would look to me.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
“I thought he was talking about succession planning.”
“You’re forty-one years old, Daniel.”
“And you’re apparently immortal. Forgive me for not assuming he meant this week.”
I looked away.
Outside, a snowplow moved down the street.
For years I had believed certainty was strength.
Know the room.
Know the players.
Know who needed what.
Control enough variables and nothing could surprise you.
Yet I had been buried beneath six feet of snow because the man closest to my business had correctly predicted my behavior.
And now my brother was sitting beside me describing a conversation that could make him look either innocent or involved.
That was the problem with betrayal.
Once it entered a room, every memory changed shape.
“Do you think I had something to do with this?”
Daniel asked.
His voice had gone quiet.
I looked at him.
I could have lied.
He would have heard it.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded once.
Pain appeared in his face and vanished almost immediately.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Disappointment.
“Fair enough.”
“Daniel—”
“No. It is.”
He stood.
“You almost died. I understand why you’re questioning everyone.”
“You’re my brother.”
“And Marcus was your friend.”
That landed exactly where he intended.
He walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
“I’m going to tell you something you’ll probably hate.”
“Most things you say qualify.”
He ignored that.
“You built a life where trust means knowing what someone is afraid of losing.”
I said nothing.
“You know everyone’s weakness, Adrian. Their debts. Their mistakes. Their ambitions. You call that knowing people.”
He looked back at me.
“But sometimes knowing what can break someone isn’t the same thing as knowing them.”
Then he left.
For once, I had no answer.
I was discharged three days later.
Against my preference, the doctors refused to release me to Manhattan immediately. My blood pressure had stabilized, my lungs were clear, and there was no permanent damage from exposure, but they wanted me nearby for follow-up tests.
Vincent found a house outside Hollow Falls.
Not a mansion.
Not a hotel suite.
A restored farmhouse on fifteen acres surrounded by bare maple trees and snow.
It belonged to a retired judge who spent winters in Arizona and apparently never asked questions when Vincent offered three months’ rent for two weeks.
I arrived after sunset.
The house smelled faintly of cedar.
A fire burned in the stone fireplace.
There were quilts on the sofas.
Family photographs still covered one wall.
I hated it immediately.
“It has one television,” I said.
May you like
Vincent set my bag down.
“You need rest.”
