Chapter 17: Our Father's Chair

Costa's POV

I drove Keeva home first, and she did not ask me to come in.

I didn't call the police.

Russell's people had a long reach in this city.

I would not have it written down that I had seen him steal a thing he'd already forged.

I drove to Brookline instead.

The house had not changed in six years.

It was a pale stone house with a long gravel drive.

The lights were on in the dining room, where my father's portrait still hung over the sideboard.

I rang the bell like a stranger.

Russell's wife opened the door, and her face did something I did not expect.

It softened, and then it closed.

"He's at dinner," she said. "Come in, Costa. Please don't make it worse."

"I'm not going to make anything."

"You always say that."

I followed her down the hall.

The table was set for four, with the good plates, and the head of it, my father's chair with the carved arms, held Russell.

Nigel's place was empty.

"Brother," Russell said without looking up. "You've saved me a phone call."

"Where is it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"The page. The one that was in my mother's hall."

Russell cut a piece of lamb, and he ate it.

I stood behind the chair opposite him.

Over his shoulder I could see our father, a stern man in a dark suit, painted from a photograph.

"You're standing in my dining room accusing me of burglary," Russell said.

"You walked out of my vault with company papers under your coat. I could have you arrested for that."

"Try it."

"I may." He wiped his mouth. "But I'd rather talk, as brothers. Sit."

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