Chapter Six Brothers
Arthur Wexler did not answer immediately.
He simply stood in the greenhouse, staring at the paused image on Michael Donovan's laptop.
The gold ring.
The letter H.
Richard Collins' dying warning.
Don't trust Henry.
For the first time in decades, Arthur felt something he had spent his entire career refusing to acknowledge.
Fear.
Not for his company.
Not for his fortune.
For his family.
Margaret was the first to speak.
"We don't know that Richard meant your brother."
Arthur looked at her.
"How many Henrys do we know?"
She didn't answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
Only one Henry had been close enough to Samuel Mercer.
Only one Henry had worn a family signet ring engraved with the letter H.
Henry Wexler.
Arthur's younger brother.
Detective Reeves closed the laptop.
"No arrests."
Arthur frowned.
"You think he's innocent?"
"I think someone wants us to believe he's guilty."
Michael looked confused.
"The ring."
"The warning."
"It's almost too perfect."
Reeves had investigated enough murders to recognize a familiar pattern.
When evidence arrived too easily...
Someone usually wanted it found.
"We proceed carefully," he said.
"No accusations."
"No phone calls."
"No warnings."
Arthur nodded reluctantly.
"I understand."
But deep inside, old memories had already begun surfacing.
Memories he had not revisited in years.
Twenty-three years earlier...
Henry had wanted control of Wexler Industries.
Arthur had refused.
"You'll have your chance," Arthur had told him.
"When?"
"When you've earned it."
Henry had smiled politely.
"I already have."
The conversation had ended there.
But from that day forward, something subtle had changed between the brothers.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing obvious.
Just enough distance to become permanent.
Later that afternoon, Henry Wexler arrived at Bellweather House.
He had come without being invited.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Perfectly tailored navy suit.
At sixty-four, he still carried himself with effortless confidence.
When the front door opened, his first words were,
"Arthur, I came as soon as I heard."
He embraced his brother.
Arthur returned the hug.
But only briefly.
Henry stepped back.
"You look terrible."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"So I've been told."
Henry turned toward Margaret.
"You should have called me sooner."
Margaret met his eyes.
"We've all been busy."
Henry noticed Detective Reeves standing nearby.
"And this is?"
"Detective Daniel Reeves."
Henry extended his hand.
"A pleasure."
Reeves shook it.
Barely.
His attention wasn't on Henry's face.
It was on his hands.
No ring.
The right hand was bare.
The left wore only a simple platinum wedding band.
Interesting.
They gathered in the library.
Coffee was served.
No one touched it.
Henry looked around the room.
"So."
"What exactly happened?"
Arthur answered carefully.
"Someone tampered with my medication."
Henry's expression darkened.
"My God."
"The police are investigating."
"As they should."
Not once did he ask who the suspect was.
Reeves noticed.
Most relatives would.
Henry didn't.
Instead, he asked,
"Have they found whoever did it?"
Arthur shook his head.
"Not yet."
Henry leaned back.
"I hope they do."
His voice sounded sincere.
Almost too sincere.
After dinner, Reeves requested a private conversation with Michael Donovan.
"I need every security recording involving Henry."
Michael frowned.
"How far back?"
"As far as your archive goes."
"That's years."
"I know."
Meanwhile, Lena continued watering the greenhouse.
Routine helped her think.
She couldn't stop replaying one small detail from that morning.
Henry's shoes.
Dark brown leather.
Still damp.
But it hadn't rained before he arrived.
Only inside the greenhouse had the ground remained wet.
A quiet voice interrupted her thoughts.
"You're observant."
She turned.
Arthur stood in the doorway.
"You noticed his shoes."
Lena nodded.
"He came here first."
Arthur looked around the greenhouse.
"You think so?"
"I'm sure."
Arthur walked slowly toward the citrus trees.
"He used to hide here as a boy."
Lena smiled.
"You told me once."
"He said this was the only place Mother never looked."
Arthur knelt beside the empty metal box.
"He remembered."
"So did whoever buried this."
That evening, Michael entered Arthur's office carrying a thick folder.
"I found something."
"What?"
"Henry visited Bellweather House at five-thirty yesterday morning."
Arthur looked up sharply.
"Yesterday?"
"Before anyone else was awake."
"I wasn't told."
Michael opened the security log.
"He didn't enter through the front gate."
"The service entrance."
Arthur frowned.
"Who let him in?"
Michael hesitated.
"No one."
"He used an old access code."
Arthur stared at the report.
"I thought those codes were deleted years ago."
"So did I."
Detective Reeves examined the footage frame by frame.
Henry appeared alone.
He entered the estate.
Walked toward...
The greenhouse.
Stayed inside for exactly twelve minutes.
Then left.
No one saw him.
No one stopped him.
Reeves looked toward Arthur.
"Did you know he was coming?"
Arthur answered quietly.
"No."
Just after midnight, another call arrived.
This time from the hospital.
Richard Collins had regained consciousness.
Only briefly.
Detective Reeves reached the intensive care unit twenty minutes later.
Richard lay connected to several monitors.
His breathing was shallow.
His voice barely audible.
Reeves leaned close.
"Richard."
The older man opened his eyes.
"You have to tell me."
"Who attacked you?"
Richard struggled to breathe.
"It..."
"What?"
"...wasn't..."
His chest tightened violently.
"It wasn't..."
Doctors rushed into the room.
Reeves stepped aside.
A minute later, the monitor emitted one long, unbroken tone.
Richard Collins was dead.
The attending physician slowly removed his gloves.
"I'm sorry."
Reeves looked toward the bedside table.
Richard's trembling hand had left something behind.
Three letters.
Scrawled across a hospital notepad.
H A R
Nothing more.
The pen line ended abruptly.
The detective stared at the unfinished word.
Was Richard trying to write...
Henry?
Or...
Harold?
Harbor?
Hargrove?
No one knew.
But whoever had silenced Richard had made one thing painfully clear.
May you like
Someone was eliminating every person who knew what had happened to Samuel Mercer.
And Arthur Wexler was almost certainly next.
