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68
Vincent was in the darkened study, with the shades down and the curtains drawn.
He was also drunk. I noticed an almost-empty decanter of scotch on the sideboard. Vincent sat on an antique chair, bent over, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Papers lay piled and scattered all over the place – on my father’s old desk, on the floor. The entire scene was one of alcoholic disarray.
“Mr. Templeton?” the bodyguard said.
Vincent looked up blearily. He was a mess – three days’ worth of stubble, red eyes, disheveled clothes and hair.
“Oh… good…”
I walked past the bodyguard, who stood by the door, not moving.
Vincent laughed. “You see that, Connor?” he slurred. “He’s sticking around cuz he thinks you’re gonna kill me.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Go on.” Vincent waved the bodyguard away. “Go on, I’m fine.”
The bodyguard closed the door behind him.
I stood there looking at my brother. He was a billionaire many times over now, and heir to our father’s empire.
He was also a total wreck.
“They let you out, huh? I figured you were coming… they called us a coupla hours ago.”
“I didn’t kill him, Vincent,” I said.
“You didn’t, huh?” he asked as he got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled over to the decanter. “And here I thought you just had a fuckin’ good lawyer.”
“I didn’t kill him, Vincent,” I repeated. “But we both know who did.”
“Heh,” he chuckled as he poured himself some scotch. Then he murmured quietly, almost to himself, “Maybe… maybe.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“You want a drink?”
“No. Where’s Miranda?”
He shrugged like a rebellious teenager. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t know – I don’t know, I don’t know,I don’t know!” he yelled. “She doesn’t fuckin’ tell me shit. How should I know where she is?”
I watched in silence as my brother took a drink and settled back in the chair.
“Didjou see Mom?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
“Did you hire the doctor for her?”
“Dr. Dallas? No – Houston. Dr. Houston,” he muttered, as though reminding himself. “Naw, Miranda got her.”
