For six months Jethro had been chasing the serial killer known as the Expert. For one month he’d known he was actually chasing his brother. Fletcher was the killer, and Jethro finally had proof. His phone rang as he zipped through the countryside in the borrowed police car, knowing his brother was headed home. It was the only place left for him since Jethro had successfully tightened the net. “Hanson,” he answered.
“Hello, Brother,” Fletcher said cheerfully. “I have to say, I’m rather proud ofyou right now.”
Jethro tightened his hold on the wheel, having taken the car after finding the last body in the pub. There was only one way for Fletcher to flee. “I’m sickened by you,” he returned, taking a corner too fast and quickly correcting his course.
Fletcher sighed. “You’re no better than am I. Let’s see how good you really are.”
“Jethro?” Isla’s voice came over the line, low and shaky. “I don’t understand. Whatis happening?”
Jethro drove faster. “Fletcher is akiller, Mum.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she said, her tone strengthening. “I can take care of it. As a family, we will handlethe situation.”
Jethro slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “No, Mum. We will not hide this and we will not sweep this under the rug. For years you’ve covered for him. The dead animals and the frightened girls. Then his problems with authority.” As a duchess, and an extremely wealthy one, Isla could make a lot of problems disappear. “We’re facing this and putting Fletcher where he belongs.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Brother,” Fletcher said quietly, the tone in his voice a new one. “I do not believe you’ll get here in time. Don’t forget. You want her dead asbadly as do I.”
Isla’s scream ripped over the line, and then it went dead.
Jethro turned onto the family estate, speeding down the long driveway and pitching to a rough stop in front of the grand stone steps up to the mansion. He took them four at a time, rushing into the drawing room to find his mother on the antique carpet, blood staining her white cashmere sweater, her handover her wound.
Even so, her hair was perfectly in place.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide in shock. “Jethro.”
“Mum.” He dropped to his knees and skidded to her, placing one hand over hers while calling the authorities. The police were already on the way, but he barked for them to bring medical personnel.
“He just stabbed me,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I don’t understand. He said you’d be blamed. That you deserveto be blamed.”
Figured his brother would set him up. “I know. Don’t talk. Help will be here soon.” He kept his pressure firm and cradled her head in his lap.“Just hold on.”
A tear leaked down her flawless face. “We’re family, Jethro.”
“I know,” he said softly, wanting to smooth back her hair but knowing she wouldn’t want him to disturb the perfect strands.
“Help him,” she whispered. “Don’t let our name be tarnished. No matter what, please keepthis a secret.”
The betrayal slashed through him more painfully than the knife that had harmed her. “Fletcher needs to pay, Mum.”
“Please, Jethro,” she whispered, her body going lax and her eyelids closing. “Protect our family name. Promise me.”
He leaned over her, attacked by too many feelings to identify just one. “Ipromise. I do.”
With a sigh, she went completely limp.
He lifted his head in shock. “Mum?”
Her clear eyes had lost their sparkle as she stared sightlessly at the van Gogh on the far wall. Anger shook his hand, but he gently closed her eyelids, holding her briefly in a way that she’dnever held him.
She was gone, and now he had to capture Fletcher while keeping the matter private. SIS would work with him, no doubt wanting to keep the matter quiet, too. She’d mentioned Fletcher setting him up, so Jethro looked for any proof. Ah. No doubt his prints were on the knife. He gingerly wiped down the handle and had just enough time to erase the security tapes for the entire property. If he was going to hunt his brother, he didn’t have time to alsoclear himself.
It was almost too much.
* * * *
The smell of stew surprised Jethro as he stepped into his flat after the flashback in the truck. “Honey, I’m home,” he muttered, shutting the door and dropping his pack to the floor.
Oliver peered around the corner from the modern kitchen. “Ian is on the phone with contacts trying to track Fletcher’s path from prison to US soil, and I went to the store and purchased goods for dinner. You’re welcome.”He disappeared.
