Page 11 of Brutal
He looked like a man who makes his own choices and fools others into thinking they’re getting him to do what he wants.
Which means if answers are buried in that family, he is probably standing guard over them.
Arthur Vexley is unreachable. Men like Arthur build walls out of money. Out of loyalty. Out of fear.
But walls always have doors.
I look at Samson’s photograph again.
The camera caught him turning. There’s no smile, no effort to soften the edges. Dark hair. Ruthless cheekbones. Those whiskey eyes that are so alert. So dangerous.
If Samson is guarding the secrets, maybe he is the door.
One I have to open.
The thought should steady me.
It doesn’t.
Because I can still feel his attention on me. I can still hear the low scrape of his voice through the music. I can still remember the way he stepped closer without crowding me, which somehow felt more intimate than if he had.
No.
I’m not doing this.
I stand and move back to the corkboard. I look at the old photograph of the three brothers together. Some charity event years ago. Black tie. Controlled smiles. Arthur just beyond the frame.
Samson stands in front like a threat.
Nathaniel stands beside him like a verdict.
And Cain?—
I narrow my eyes.
Cain stands half a step behind the others, one hand in his pocket, his expression almost bored. Not arrogance. Not exactly. Something cooler than that. He’s detached, as though he’s watching a game no one else realizes they’re playing.
A strange thought moves through me before I can stop it.
Samson looks like the man who would end a fight. Nathaniel looks like the man who would justify it.
But Cain Vexley looks like the man who would start one and never have to touch it.
I go still.
Then I let out a humorless laugh. “Good one, Del. You’re projecting onto a photo now. Get a freaking grip.”
Still, I keep looking at him. At the youngest brother I can’t quite place. At the angle of his head. At the faint impression that he knows something the others don’t. Or worse, that he knows the same thing but looks at it in a completely different way.
The corner of the photograph has slipped crooked under its pin. I reach up and straighten it, and for one second I rest my fingertip over Cain Vexley’s face.
A small chill skates down the back of my neck.
I pull my hand away.
Enough.
I walk to my kitchenette, pour a glass of water, and drink half of it in one go. Then I set the glass down and brace both hands on the counter.
