Chapter 26 Inside Man

Chapter 26 Inside Man
Richard POV

The cabin smelled like our childhood—pine sap and mildew, the particular mustiness of a place left to rot for decades. I stood at the window watching the tree line, phone pressed to my ear while Lieutenant Carver from the Ninth Precinct confirmed the last of the security detail schedules.

"Appreciate it, Carver. Yeah, poker next month for sure." I ended the call and turned to find David arranging his files on the dining table like he was setting up for a board meeting instead of running from a manhunt.

"They've moved her three times in six hours," I said. "Bruno's getting paranoid."

David didn't look up from his papers. "Bruno's getting smart. That's different."

I crossed to the kitchen, found the bottle of Jim Beam I'd stashed here in 2003. The seal cracked with a sound like breaking bone. "We need to talk about Canada."

"We're not going to Canada."

"David—"

"I said no." He aligned a stack of photographs with precise edges. Morgana's face stared up from every angle—sleeping, working, walking. Surveillance shots spanning months. "I'm forty-seven hours from completion. I'm not walking away now."

I poured three fingers of bourbon, drank half. The burn felt cleaner than this conversation. "You've got NYPD, FBI, and probably federal marshals looking for you. This isn't like Pittsburgh or Austin. This is New York. You don't just disappear here."

"I disappeared from my apartment in eleven hours. Richard, please. I've been planning this since before I met her."

"That's the problem. You planned for a controlled environment. You didn't plan for Bruno connecting the dots, for your colleague playing detective, for—" I stopped, drank the rest of the bourbon. "For me having to cash in thirty years of favors just to get you out of the city."

David finally looked up. His face held that expression I'd learned to read at eight years old, watching him dissect a neighbor's cat in our garage. Curiosity without empathy. Intelligence without conscience.

"You've done it before," he said simply.

"Twice. In cities where I didn't have a career. Where I wasn't calling in markers from people who could trace the calls back to me." I refilled my glass. "Pittsburgh was easy—you were still learning, still sloppy. Austin required more work, but you'd at least been smart enough to use dating apps and fake names. This? David, you dated her under your real name. At your actual workplace. With security cameras documenting every interaction."

"It was necessary for the research." He turned back to his files. "The digital approach lacked authenticity. I needed to observe genuine workplace dynamics, see how she responded to professional manipulation versus online personas. The data required—"

"The data required you to not get caught." I slammed the glass down harder than intended. "Which you did. Because you got arrogant."

Silence filled the cabin like water rising. Outside, a crow called. Inside, my baby brother sorted photographs of the woman he planned to murder with the same methodical care he brought to everything.

"I wasn't arrogant," David said finally. "I was thorough. If anything, Bruno got lucky. That journalist's article should have been buried. Marcus Webb should have been too intimidated to investigate. The variables aligned against me in statistically improbable ways."

I laughed, the sound bitter. "Listen to yourself. You're not a researcher. You're a serial killer. And I'm the idiot who's been cleaning up your messes since you were sixteen."

David stood, moved to the wall where he'd pinned a map of Manhattan. Red dots marked his previous victims. A blue X marked Morgana's apartment. "You're not an idiot, Richard. You're family. And family protects family. That's what Dad taught us."

Dad. Who'd beaten confession out of David at fourteen when the neighbor's daughter went missing. Who'd helped us bury evidence in the woods behind this very cabin. Who'd used his position as county sheriff to ensure the investigation went nowhere.

I'd been eighteen, fresh into the police academy. Already learning how to work the system from the inside.

"Dad was a drunk who taught you killing was acceptable if you were smart about it," I said. "And taught me that covering for you was my responsibility. That's not protection, David. That's enabling."

"Semantics." He traced a route on the map with one finger. "Bruno will focus on this property once he digs deep enough into county records. We have maybe seventy-two hours before he gets a warrant. That's enough time."

"Enough time for what? To grab her out of protective custody? To take her somewhere for your 'completion'? And then what—we run to Canada with every law enforcement agency in the northeast hunting us?"

David turned. His eyes held that flat quality that meant he'd already made his decision and was just waiting for me to accept it.

"We don't run," he said. "We finish the research. We document everything. Then we disappear properly—not to Canada, but to South America. I have accounts set up, identities prepared. We've been running scared, Richard. We should be running smart."

My phone buzzed. Text from Carver at the Ninth: Bruno requested witness protection locations. How much do you want to know?

I stared at the screen. Carver was asking how much I'd pay for Morgana's current location. Asking if I wanted to help my brother complete his murder.

Thirty years. Thirty years of phone calls and favors, evidence tampering and misdirection. Pittsburgh, when David strangled that graduate student. Austin, when he escalated to three victims before I could relocate him. Now New York, with four bodies and Bruno breathing down our necks.

Four bodies I'd helped hide. Four families I'd lied to. Four investigations I'd sabotaged.

"Richard?" David was watching me. "What is it?"

I looked at my brother. Remembered him at six, crying after Mom left. At ten, fascinated by the way things stopped moving. At sixteen, covered in blood that wasn't his. At twenty-three, when I'd helped him flee Pittsburgh with a duffle bag full of photographs and journals.

Remembered every birthday, every Christmas, every moment he'd been the only family I had left.

"Carver has Bruno's witness protection requests," I heard myself say. "He's asking if we want the information."

David smiled. Actually smiled. "See? The system works in our favor when you know how to use it. Tell him yes."

My thumb hovered over the keyboard. One text. That's all it would take. One text, and David would know exactly where Morgana was being held. One text, and I'd be complicit not just in covering his crimes but actively facilitating the next one.

"How much?" I asked.

"Does it matter?" David returned to his files, already planning. "Wire him whatever he wants. We'll have her location within the hour. Bruno's moving her again tonight—that's our window. Once we have her, we take her to the Connecticut estate. The bunker Dad built is still operational. Soundproof. Secure. Perfect for the final phase."

The final phase. Like this was a project timeline instead of premeditated murder.

I looked at my phone. Carver was waiting. David was planning. And I was standing in our childhood cabin, bourbon in hand, making the same choice I'd made at eighteen: protect my brother, or turn him in.

"Richard?" David's voice had gone sharp. "Are you with me?"

I thought about Bruno—good detective, better man. Thought about Morgana, who'd done nothing except attract my brother's predatory attention. Thought about four other women who'd trusted David and died for it.

Thought about the sixteen-year-old kid who'd helped bury evidence because Dad said family came first.

I typed: How much?

Carver's response came immediately: 50k. Cash. Tonight. Location drops as soon as it clears.

David was watching me now, that flat expression giving nothing away. But I knew what he was thinking: would I choose him again? Would I cash in the last of my integrity for family?

I finished the bourbon, felt it burn all the way down.

"Transfer initiated," I said. "We'll have her location in three hours."

David nodded, turned back to his files. Like he'd never doubted. Like thirty years of me choosing him over everything else meant the next thirty were guaranteed.

My phone buzzed again. Different number. Text from a burner I'd bought yesterday: This is Bruno. I know you're helping him. Give me something, anything, and I'll get you immunity. Or keep protecting him and go down with him. Your choice.

I stared at the message. Bruno had my burner number. Which meant he'd been tracking my movements. Which meant he knew more than I'd thought.

I deleted the text without responding.

David was humming now, organizing his materials. Happy. Focused. The way he always was before completion.

I poured another bourbon and watched the tree line, waiting for headlights that might be Bruno's people or might be nothing.

My phone lit up with Carver's confirmation: Wire received. Location attached. Good luck.

The file loaded. Safe house address in Queens. Security detail schedule. Shift change at midnight.

Eight hours.

I forwarded it to David without a word.

He opened the file, read it, smiled. "See? Everything works out when you trust the process."

I thought about Bruno's text. About immunity. About thirty years of choosing wrong.

"Yeah," I said. "Everything works out."