"I’m looking for a pattern interruption," I say. "If there is a deviation in the ledger, it means she’s hiding something. And if she’s hiding something, we can use it."
Preston spins the mug in his hands, his expression unreadable.
"You know," Preston says, "when I was seven, I used to think you were a cyborg. I was genuinely convinced Father built you in a lab to secure the tax breaks."
I pause. My fingers hover over the keys. "I am aware. You once tried to find my off switch with a flathead screwdriver while I was studying for my MCATs."
"It was a sound hypothesis," Preston muses.
"You tried to insert it into my rectum, Preston," I remind him without looking up. "You were convinced the charging port was located in the lower lumbar region."
"Robots have ports!" Preston argues. "It was a logical assumption based on the sci-fi literature available to me at the time!"
"I kicked you through the library doors," I say. "You flew three feet. It was a reflex."
"It was a very efficient kick," Preston admits, rubbing his hip as if the memory still bruises. "I couldn't sit on the Eames chair for a week."
"I was a child," Preston defends himself with a sniff. "And you were... terrifying. You were twenty. You were already in med school. You came home for holidays wearing perfectly pressed suits, you spoke in paragraphs, and you never, ever sweated. Father told me you were the 'Standard'. Mother told me you were 'calibrated'. I just thought you were cold. Efficient, yes. But cold."
"I wasn't cold," I say, staring at the screen. "I was overwhelmed. The world was too loud. The suits were armour. The paragraphs were a script. If I stopped moving, the noise would catch up."
"Well, looking back, the 'Standard' was impossible to live up to," Preston says, examining his manicure. "I spent my entire childhood trying to figure out how to be you, Max. I thought if I analyzed you enough, I could figure out how to turn off my own feelings and be the perfect heir. Spoiler alert: I failed. I have too many feelings. Most of them are annoyance, but they count."
"You are currently pining for an ER Attending you stunned with your tongue in a parking lot earlier," I note. "I would hypothesize that it's safe to say your emotional regulation is compromised."
Preston flushes, a rare crack in the porcelain. "I am not pining. I am strategically yearning. There is a difference. Absence doesn't just make the heart grow fonder, Maxwell; it makes the reunion sex ballistically explosive. I am simply compounding the interest on my investment. Now, move over. Let’s look at the books before I psychoanalyze you out of spite."
He walks around the island and stands behind me. We are two York brothers, separated by thirteen years but united by insomnia and a shared adversary.
"Okay," Preston says, pointing at the screen. "Filter by 'Miscellaneous Consulting'. That’s where she hides the bodies. Or the botox receipts."
I apply the filter. The screen populates with thousands of entries. We scroll past the usual: florists, PR firms, lobbyists, a bribe to a Senator listed as 'Lobbying Expenses'.
"Stop," Preston says. "Scroll back up. 2015 to present. Who is 'M. Santos'?"
I highlight the line.M. Santos. San José, Costa Rica. $5,000 monthly recurring.
"It’s tagged under 'Horticultural Research'," I note. "Father’s tropical interests."
"Five thousand a month for ten years?" Preston frowns. "That’s a lot of orchids. Or a second family."
"Father doesn't have the stamina for a second family," I saydismissively. "He naps three times a day. He likely just really enjoys rare ferns."
"Flag it," Preston orders. "It’s an anomaly. If Alistair is hiding money in Costa Rica, that’s leverage onhim. If we can flip Father, we isolate Mother. And frankly, I’d love to see Alistair try to explain a mistress. He’d probably bring a PowerPoint."
I highlight the rows in yellow.Target: Alistair.
"Now go back," Preston says. "Go deeper. Check the 90s. Before I was born. Or when I was in diapers and you were already winning science fairs."
I scroll back. The years fly by. 2005. 2000. 1998.
"There," I say.
It’s a cluster of payments. Significant ones. 1996 to 1999.
Dr. Aris. Pediatric Neurology. $25,000.Dr. Aris. Behavioral Modification Consulting. $10,000.The Institute for Social Calibration. $50,000.
The entries stop in 1999. I would have been nine years old. Preston wasn't even born yet.
