Chapter 8 - The Camera Above the Kitchen Door
Damian stared at the photograph until Clara took it from his hand.
“You were young.”
“Twenty-four.”
Michael looked different from Damian.
Lighter.
Smiling.
An arm around his brother.
Vincent stood behind them.
“How did he die?” Clara asked.
“Car accident.”
Vincent had been driving another vehicle behind Michael that night.
He had identified the wreck.
He had handled police contacts.
He had stood beside Damian at the funeral.
“He saved me afterward,” Damian said.
“Or made you think he did.”
Damian looked at Clara.
That possibility hurt more than he wanted anyone to see.
Marcus examined the photograph.
“This was taken at the lake house.”
“What lake house?”
“Family property. Abandoned after Michael died.”
The location Vincent had sent was less than five miles from it.
Damian wanted to go alone.
Nobody allowed it.
Especially Clara.
“You are not coming.”
“You keep saying that like it works.”
“This could be a trap.”
“It is obviously a trap.”
“That was not reassurance.”
They reached the lake house after dark.
Vincent wasn’t there.
But Clara’s notebook sat on the porch.
Damian approached carefully.
A phone rested on top.
It rang.
He answered.
Vincent’s voice.
“You brought her.”
Damian scanned the trees.
“You expected me to.”
“I hoped you were smarter.”
“You know me better than that.”
Vincent laughed softly.
Clara stepped closer.
“Why me?”
Silence.
Then Vincent answered.
“Because he changed when you arrived.”
Damian’s eyes moved to Clara.
Vincent continued.
“He started eating dinner at home. Canceling meetings. Questioning decisions. Asking why employees were leaving.”
“So you destroyed my medical leave?”
“I created pressure.”
“You nearly cost me my health.”
“No, Clara. You did that yourself.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Vincent continued before he could speak.
“You chose Noah’s tuition. You chose to delay surgery. You chose not to tell Damian directly.”
Clara hated that some of those words were technically true.
That was Vincent’s gift.
He built lies around fragments of truth.
“Where are you?” Damian asked.
“Closer than you think.”
A red light blinked above the porch.
Camera.
Marcus looked up.
Vincent was watching them.
Damian stepped directly beneath it.
“Michael.”
Silence.
Then:
“What about him?”
“You’re using his identity.”
Another pause.
“Am I?”
“You tell me.”
Vincent laughed.
“Ask yourself why there was no body you were allowed to see.”
Damian went still.
Clara looked at him.
“Damian?”
“The car burned.”
Vincent’s voice returned.
“You trusted me to identify him.”
Damian’s breathing changed.
Marcus whispered, “Don’t believe him.”
But uncertainty had already entered the room.
Vincent said, “Go inside.”
The front door unlocked remotely.
Clara grabbed Damian’s arm.
“Wait.”
He looked at her hand.
Then her face.
“Together,” she said.
They entered.
Dust covered the furniture.
Photographs remained on the walls.
Two brothers everywhere.
In the study, a projector switched on.
Security footage filled the wall.
Eight years old.
Michael leaving a restaurant.
Michael getting into his car.
Vincent following.
Then another clip.
A hospital corridor.
A man on a stretcher.
His face bandaged.
Alive.
Timestamp: two days after Michael Cross supposedly died.
Damian stepped toward the screen.
“No.”
Clara whispered his name.
Another video began.
Vincent entered the hospital room.
The audio was faint.
Michael’s voice:
“Damian thinks I’m dead?”
Vincent answered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s safer.”
The recording ended.
Damian stood motionless.
His brother had survived.
At least initially.
Vincent had lied.
For eight years.
A final file appeared.
Recorded three months later.
Michael sat in a wheelchair.
His face scarred but recognizable.
He looked directly into the camera.
“Damian, if you ever see this, Vincent lied to both of us.”
The image glitched.
“He said you ordered—”
Static.
The recording stopped.
Damian struck the desk.
Clara flinched.
He immediately stepped back.
“Sorry.”
Not for the desk.
For frightening her.
That mattered.
Marcus searched the computer.
“There’s another file.”
Audio only.
A recent date.
Three weeks ago.
A man spoke.
Older.
Rougher.
But unmistakably similar to Damian.
“Vincent, I’m done hiding.”
Damian’s knees nearly gave.
Clara caught his arm.
Michael might be alive.
Now.
The lights suddenly died.
Marcus drew his weapon.
A door opened somewhere deeper in the house.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Damian stared into the dark hallway.
Then a man’s voice called from the other side.
“Damian?”
May you like
Damian stopped breathing.
Because he knew that voice.
