Chapter 13 - The Broken Brother
Daniel stood in the doorway.
He was wearing gray hospital scrub pants and a faded hooded sweatshirt, his hospital identification band still taped around his left wrist. The needle bruise in the crook of his elbow was fresh, covered with a square of white gauze. He was pale, his eyes bloodshot, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the sedatives the ER doctors had pumped out of his system.
He looked broken, but in his right hand, gripped white-knuckle tight, was an iron fireplace poker from the hearth in Margaret’s living room.
“Daniel,” Richard breathed, letting go of Margaret’s wrist and backing away until his spine hit the kitchen cabinets.
“I heard the back door open from Clara’s car,” Daniel rasped, his voice raw and ragged from the gastric tube they had used at the hospital. “Clara drove me straight here from the ER the second the detective told me Vanessa was in holding. I didn't believe him, Richie. When Bennett told me you were listed on the original trust filings... I told him he was a liar. I told him my brother wouldn't do that to me.”
Daniel took a step forward. The heavy iron poker dragged against the floorboards with a sharp, terrifying scrape.
“Lily was crying at the sink,” Daniel whispered, tears streaming freely down his gaunt cheeks. “My four-year-old baby was begging me to help her, and I couldn't lift my arms. I couldn't form the words to tell her I loved her. You did that to me, Richie? You sat across from me at Thanksgiving dinner, you held Noah in your arms, while you were feeding my wife the poison that was paralyzing me?”
“Danny, listen to me,” Richard pleaded, raising both palms, his voice cracking into high-pitched panic. “Vanessa went off the rails! She took it too far! I was trying to secure the family capital! I was going to manage the trust for Lily—I was going to make sure she was taken care of!”
“You stole my child’s future,” Daniel said, his voice dropping into a deadly, guttural rumble. “And you stole my dignity. You made my daughter think her own father didn't care that she was bleeding.”
Daniel raised the iron bar.
“Daniel, no!” Margaret screamed, lunging forward and wrapping both arms around her younger son’s chest, throwing her entire weight against him. “Don't do it! Don't let him turn you into a criminal! Look at Lily! Look at your daughter!”
Daniel stopped.
The iron poker hung trembling in the air three inches from Richard’s face. Richard was cowering against the refrigerator, his arms crossed over his head, whimpering like a dog.
At the edge of the kitchen, Lily stood with her hands over her ears, tears streaming silently down her small cheeks.
Daniel looked from Richard’s pathetic, trembling form down to his daughter. The rage seemed to drain out of him all at once, replaced by a hollow, shuddering agony. The iron poker slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the linoleum.
Daniel dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with ragged, uncontrollable sobs.
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Richard saw the opening.
He didn't look at Daniel. He didn't look at Margaret. He grabbed his leather briefcase from the floor and bolted toward the back door, yanking the deadbolt open and throwing himself out into the dark, wet driveway.
