Chapter 7 - THE SECOND SON
Jonathan Whitmore arrived at the estate shortly after sunset.
He stepped from a black SUV wearing a charcoal coat and the easy smile Elena remembered.
At thirty-eight, he resembled Michael enough to make grief uncomfortable.
Same dark eyes.
Same height.
Same habit of rubbing his thumb against his wedding ring when nervous.
Except Jonathan was divorced.
There was no ring anymore.
Arthur waited in the foyer.
Elena stood near the library doors.
Detective Reed remained out of sight.
Jonathan entered and opened his arms.
“Dad.”
Arthur did not move.
Jonathan lowered his arms.
“Well.”
“That’s warm.”
Arthur held up a folder from Warehouse Twelve.
“You knew Michael was investigating the trust.”
Jonathan’s smile disappeared.
“I knew he was worried about something.”
“You told me he was stressed because of work.”
“He was.”
“You never mentioned theft.”
“I didn’t know the details.”
Elena stepped forward.
“Why did the company created in my name originate from your office?”
Jonathan looked at her.
For the first time, the warmth vanished completely.
“What company?”
“ELM Holdings.”
He frowned.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Arthur watched him carefully.
“Your office credentials were used.”
Jonathan laughed.
“My executive assistant had access.”
“So did half the IT department.”
“Anyone could spoof a login.”
Detective Reed entered.
Jonathan’s jaw tightened.
“Police too?”
Reed displayed his badge.
“We’d like to ask you several questions.”
Jonathan looked at Arthur.
“You think I stole from you?”
“I think Michael stopped trusting you.”
Jonathan’s face changed.
That landed.
“What did Michael say?”
Arthur did not answer.
Jonathan moved toward him.
“Dad.”
“What did he say about me?”
Elena watched.
That question mattered too much.
Arthur saw it.
“He said nothing.”
Jonathan’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
Elena caught it.
So did Reed.
Reed asked.
“When did you last see Michael?”
“At his daughter’s christening.”
“That was two months before his death.”
“Correct.”
“Phone calls?”
“A few.”
“Messages?”
“Probably.”
“Did you see him the week he died?”
“No.”
Reed placed a photograph on the table.
Security footage showed two men entering Warehouse Twelve four days before Michael’s accident.
One was Michael.
The other wore a baseball cap.
The face was partially hidden.
But the expensive watch was visible.
Jonathan glanced at the picture.
Elena looked at his wrist.
Same watch.
Jonathan immediately covered it with his sleeve.
Reed noticed.
“That you?”
“No.”
Arthur’s voice hardened.
“Jonathan.”
“It could be anyone.”
“With your watch?”
“Thousands of people own this model.”
Elena leaned closer.
“And your scar.”
Jonathan froze.
In the photograph, the man’s left hand rested against the doorframe.
A pale scar crossed the thumb.
Jonathan had gotten the scar at age sixteen after crashing a dirt bike.
Elena had heard the story at least ten times.
Arthur picked up the photograph.
His face went gray.
“You were there.”
Jonathan looked at him.
“Yes.”
The room became silent.
Reed spoke.
“You just told me you hadn’t seen Michael.”
Jonathan exhaled.
“Fine.”
“I met him.”
“Why lie?”
“Because Michael was paranoid.”
“He accused me of stealing.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“He said he found transfers linked to my office.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Victoria had access.”
Arthur stared.
“You knew about Victoria?”
“I suspected her.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
Jonathan’s voice rose.
“Michael told me not to.”
“Michael is dead.”
“And I spent six months wondering if confronting her would get me killed too.”
Elena felt the air change.
Arthur stared at his son.
“You think Victoria caused the crash?”
Jonathan looked at Elena.
“I think Michael’s brakes didn’t fail by accident.”
Elena stopped breathing.
Reed’s expression sharpened.
“The accident report found no mechanical tampering.”
“That report was wrong.”
“How do you know?”
Jonathan reached into his coat.
He removed his phone.
On the screen was a photograph taken inside a garage.
Michael’s black sedan sat on a lift.
A mechanic crouched beneath it.
Jonathan zoomed in.
The brake line had been sliced.
Elena gripped the table.
“When was that taken?”
“The morning after Michael died.”
Arthur’s voice cracked.
“How did you get this?”
Jonathan looked directly at his father.
“Because I paid the tow-yard mechanic to photograph the car before your insurance company removed it.”
Arthur stared.
“Why?”
“Because Michael called me twenty minutes before he called you.”
Elena’s knees weakened.
Jonathan continued.
“He said someone had followed him from this house.”
“Who?”
Jonathan looked toward the staircase.
Then toward the dark west wing where Victoria’s rooms stood.
“He said he recognized the car.”
Arthur’s voice became almost a whisper.
“Whose?”
May you like
Jonathan swallowed.
“Victoria’s.”
