Authors: Polly Iyer
His brother stole his life twenty-one years ago, and he was trying to do it again.
Reece sailed through a red light.
Pull yourself together. Don’t get stopped for a traffic violation.
He had to think. Where? The dog park. Space. He needed space.
If he were home, he’d run the mountain roads to drive out his demons. But he wasn’t home. He was running from the police. Wanted for a murder his brother committed to cast suspicion on him.
Again, he asked why?
Few cars at the dog park. He pulled his cap low, pushed the sunglasses back on his nose. Nothing he could do about his height. He always stood out. He navigated the paths and bridges, weighing his options.
Think smart.
He’d been taking chances, walking into the lives of people who could have turned him in. He’d come to the end of the line.
His own brother.
There must have been signs. He’d even considered the possibility but rejected it as being impossible. Reece didn’t understand, and he doubted Carl could say anything that would help.
How long had he walked? Half an hour? Circling and circling. Passing people who paid him no mind. He checked his watch. A little after one. Where was Carl now? At the business? Out to lunch?
The only way to clear himself was to make Carl confess. Trade one life for another. Isn’t that what Carl did? If he were a police informer, he’d wear a wire. Well, he didn’t have a wire, but he could do the next best thing. He sprinted back to his car.
Portland had changed in twenty-one years. It was still a beautiful city. Maybe more beautiful. But it wasn’t home anymore. What remained of Reece’s life here were frayed strands that connected to family and friends who had turned their backs on him. Same with Boston. Would the latest tragedies taint how he felt about the North Carolina home he’d grown to love?
Reece remembered where a chain electronics store used to be. He bet they’d have what he needed. He drove to find it still there. Inside, he avoided looking directly at anyone, then thought maybe the straight-on approach would be less obvious. So he smiled at those who caught his eye, acting anything other than a wanted man. He located a small, handheld digital recorder that fit unobtrusively into his shirt pocket, where dialogue would record clearer than if he put it in his pants. He bought batteries, paid in cash, and left without drawing anyone’s suspicion. At least he hoped so.
Inside the car, he read the directions to the recorder. Record and Stop were activated by the same button. He inserted the batteries and tested a few sentences to make sure he had the feel of it. When he did, he drove to Daughtry Custom Homes. Someone would probably call the police. That was okay. He planned to get what he needed before they arrived, then give himself up. He couldn’t run any more. He thought of calling Dana but changed his mind. This was something he had to do, and he didn’t want to be talked out of it.
Daughtry Custom Homes occupied half a block on a main thoroughfare. Reece hadn’t seen it in two decades. They’d renovated. Nothing he would have designed for the home office of the largest builder in the state, but then he wasn’t their architect. The man who’d taken what would have been his position had left years ago, he’d heard, and others had come and gone since. The thought triggered a wave of nostalgia, but now wasn’t the time for what might have been.
Carl’s SUV sat in his father’s parking space, at the side entrance, under a columned portico. Reece checked his watch. Almost two.
Now or never.
You can do this
.
The lobby décor, all taupes and beiges, fit Daughtry Homes ersatz Italianate image. The style seemed fussy and somewhat retro, as young, upwardly mobile couples now trended for simple, clean lines with no pretense.
No one sat behind the receptionist’s desk. Reece checked his watch. A late lunch hour? Day off? He walked toward his father’s old office and stood in front of the closed door, stepping back in time. Thom Daughtry’s name had been etched on a bronze plaque when he inhabited the office. Now, Carl’s name in brass replaced it. Reece closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, let it out. Again. He turned the knob and entered. Shut the door behind him. Twisted the latch.
The office looked different. Same layout but a different color paint and new carpet. Carl sat behind his father’s big carved antique desk, appearing smaller somehow, as if he didn’t quite fit the man who preceded him. He glanced up from his phone conversation, froze when he saw Reece.
“Gotta go, Jasper. I’ll talk to you later.” With his eyes riveted on Reece, he said, “No, not tonight. Listen, sorry, but something just came up. I’ll take a rain check.” He placed the receiver on the cradle. “Reece. What…what are you doing here? The cops and FBI have been all over me, asking if I’ve seen you. Of course I said no. I didn’t tell them about yesterday. I wouldn’t. But they have to be keeping an eye on this place. The house too.”
Carl looked every inch the executive. Reece found the suit and tie off-putting. Maybe men in charge of building McMansions were supposed to look like Wall Street big shots these days, but Reece had pictured himself less formal. More hands-on. Maybe because he’d never been the type to sit behind a desk.
He noticed a sheen of perspiration sprout across Carl’s top lip. His eyes darted, as if he couldn’t face Reece straight on. Had he realized why Reece was here?
“Doesn’t matter,” Reece said. “I’m turning myself in after this visit.”
Carl rose to his feet. “You can’t. You’ll go back to prison.”
A strange calm settled over Reece as soon as he closed the office door behind him. It was as if his whole life at that moment had fallen into place. Carl, on the other hand, looked as if he were about to dissolve into a puddle. “Maybe.”
“You don’t have to, you know. I’ll help you get away. Up to Canada. Montreal’s only a couple hundred miles. From there you can get lost. They’ll never find you. You’ll be safe.”
Reece tried to look as if he was considering the offer, then said, “Hmm, no. I thought about it, but that’s not how I want to live. Besides, I’d never get past the border.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, I’ve spent the last few hours wondering why.”
Carl squinted. A tic twitched his left cheek as he lowered himself into his chair. “Why? Why what?”
His gaze steady, Reece focused on his brother. “Why you framed me for Karen’s murder.”
Carl’s weak laugh offered no sign of outrage. He planted his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Wha—? Where did you get that notion? You’re joking, right? You have to be.” His laughter died in his throat, and he slumped back into his chair, twisting his face in mock indignation. “How…how can you say that? You’re looking for someone to blame, and I’m the one left, is that it?”
Reece hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and watched his brother squirm. He didn’t answer.
“I told them at the trial you couldn’t have killed anyone. You heard me. What else could I have said? Haven’t I been there for you all these years? Supported you?” Rivulets of sweat crawled down from Carl’s hairline. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket for a handkerchief and dabbed it across his forehead and cheeks.
If Carl were strapped to a lie detector, the needle would vault off the paper. “You could have said you killed her. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You killed Karen and left me to take the blame. Then you told Dad I confessed to you. He told me today when I visited him.”
Carl made a strange noise. Not a laugh, not the sound of righteous anger. “The old man said that? He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s sick, out of touch with reality. I never said anything of the kind. Never.”
“To bastardize the quote, ‘The gentleman doth protest too much.’”
“It’s true, Reece. Think. Why would I kill Karen? We got it on a couple of times, like I told you. I barely knew her.”
Reece almost could have believed his brother if he weren’t sweating like an overworked racehorse. Innocent men didn’t do that. They didn’t sputter lies. “You’re sweating, Carl. Why? It’s cool in here. Downright chilly, in fact. Must be sixty.”
Carl pulled his shirt away from his neck and rotated his head. “Seems hot. I’m wearing a suit and tie. Hate the damn things.”
Reece marveled at his own composure, words steady and unrushed. “Then why wear them? You’re the boss. You can do anything you want.”
“Dad insisted. I got into the habit.”
“Seems like you got into the habit of lying too. You lied to everyone. To me, to Dad, to the court. You’re lying now. Why? What did I ever do to turn you against me?”
“You have to stop this.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “What you think I did is ludicrous. You’re my brother, for
crissakes
.”
Reece moved toward the visitor’s chair. Carl stood. His hand lurched toward the desk drawer. Reece had forgotten his father kept a .22 revolver there. He never understood why. No one robbed a business like Daughtry Custom Homes. They never kept cash, only checks in large amounts—large enough to make the Daughtrys rich beyond the comprehension of most people, with an estate on the coveted Maine coastline.
Carl yanked the gun from the drawer and waved it at Reece with a shaky hand. A few months ago Reece wouldn’t have cared if Carl shot him. But he cared now. He had carved out a life and had someone he wanted to share it with. He pictured Dana and knew he didn’t want to die. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“I could. No one would blame me.”
Reece took another step forward. “No, they wouldn’t. I’m wanted for two murders in North Carolina I know nothing about. And I think you committed one of them, maybe both. Tell me I’m wrong.” He didn’t move. “Please, Carl. Tell me.”
Carl swallowed and shook his head. He brushed the back of his left hand under his nose to wipe away the moisture. “I know nothing about the second one. It wasn’t me.”
Reece’s stomach rolled over.
The second one.
Which meant Carl knew about the first—the poor beheaded girl in Corley. Ever since he heard his father’s words incriminating Carl, Reece retained a small glimmer of hope that there had been a misunderstanding. An old man’s lapse of memory. Something. Now he knew differently.
He debated going for the gun. He’d always been stronger than Carl. Certainly now more so. Carl looked soft. The result of the good life. Reece wasn’t soft. Prison had toughened him, turned him hard in more ways than physically.
But he couldn’t beat a bullet.
If he charged to take away the gun, his brother would pull the trigger. Everyone would applaud and say
You rid the world of a murderer, Carl,
and give him a medal. They might learn the truth from the recorder unless Carl found it first and destroyed it. Then Reece Daughtry would go to his grave a murderer, and the world would never know what really happened. He stumbled to the chair and collapsed into it. He needed time.
“After spending a third of my life in prison, I have a right to know why you killed her. Then you can shoot me if you want.” He crossed his calf over his thigh, the guise of appearing relaxed, the recorder in his breast pocket, listening. “Why, Carl?”
The gun trembled in Carl’s hand. Reece watched the barrel point at him, then move to the side and back. Always shaking.
Carl sat. “Karen was a whore.” He spat out the words as if bees were stinging the inside of his mouth. “She came on to me one day when you were at work. I put her off. After all, she was my brother’s girlfriend. But she didn’t like being put off.” He leaned back in his chair, the hinges squeaking with the motion. “I figured after Marcy and I were married, I wouldn’t have any more chances. And Karen was hot. Everyone thought that. I wanted to see what she was like. Not to take her from you. Besides, I thought with her coming on to me, she wasn’t worth you. But you know how it is—she stuck it in my face.”
“Actually,” Reece said, “I don’t know how it is. I never fucked my brother’s girlfriend. I never would have.”
Carl snorted. “You’re so predictable. No, you wouldn’t have. Mr. Perfect, always doing the right thing.”
“Is that what this is about? Getting back at me because I followed the rules?”
“I could never compete with you. I was smart, but you…you had to be the best at whatever you did. The teachers must have been disappointed when Reece Daughtry’s kid brother moved up. I never came close.”
Reece sprang forward and banged his fist on the desk. Carl rolled his chair back to the wall, still pointing a wavering gun in Reece’s face.
“So fucking what?” Reece didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he couldn’t listen to the bullshit spewing from his brother’s mouth. “You had your own strengths. If Karen put out so easily, why would I have wanted her?”
“Don’t you see? I wanted to have what belonged to big brother. To see what his woman was like, just once. That’s all. But then…something happened.” He dropped his arm to his side, the gun slack in his hand. Sweat trickled into his eye, and he swatted it away.
Reece thought of going for him, but the large desk remained a barrier between them.
Carl recovered, brought the gun up again. “But it wasn’t only once. I couldn’t get enough of her. She flaunted herself, teasing, doing sexual things I’d never even dreamed of. It wasn’t love. Karen turned into an obsession, a drug I couldn’t get enough of. I wanted her every waking minute. I couldn’t think of anything else. It was like a bad noir movie.”