Nathan had not been allowed to see Alexander before the funeral home removed the body. Sophia said it was too traumatic. Julian said the heart attack had been sudden but peaceful. The private nurse said she had been sent home early the night before because Sophia wanted “quiet time” with her husband.
None of it sat right with Nathan.
He and Alexander had not always been close. The Whitmore family had too much money and too many secrets for brotherhood to remain simple. Alexander had inherited leadership of Whitmore Reserve Bourbon, while Nathan had spent years being dismissed as the reckless younger son who preferred horses, motorcycles, and bad decisions.
But beneath all of that, Nathan knew his brother.
Alexander did not die easily.
He did not surrender to stress. He did not ignore symptoms for weeks without ordering tests. He did not let his body collapse while sitting beside Sophia and her favorite doctor.
Nathan walked through the mansion with a kind of quiet anger that made the staff avoid his eyes. The house looked too clean. Too arranged. Fresh flowers had already replaced the ones in Alexander’s bedroom. The sheets had been stripped. The tea tray was gone.
Almost gone.
In the kitchen, an older housekeeper named Mrs. Bell stood beside the sink, twisting a towel in her hands.
Nathan stopped.
“What is it?”
She looked toward the hallway before speaking. “Mr. Nathan, I don’t want trouble.”
“That usually means trouble already exists.”
Her eyes filled. “Your brother was asking for you last week.”
Nathan’s chest tightened. “He was?”
“He told me if anything happened, I should call you first.”
Nathan went still.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Mrs. Whitmore took his phone. Said he needed rest. Dr. Mercer told the staff not to disturb him.”
Nathan’s jaw hardened.
Mrs. Bell lowered her voice. “And there was something in the trash this morning. I thought it was odd.”
“What?”
She led him to the service pantry, where the large kitchen trash bag had not yet been taken out. Nathan pulled on a pair of dish gloves and opened it.
At first, there was nothing unusual. Coffee grounds. Paper towels. Empty floral packaging. A broken teacup wrapped in newspaper.
Then Nathan saw it.
A small amber glass vial.
No label.
At the bottom of the bag was a torn pharmacy sticker, wet from spilled tea but still partly readable.
Vecur—
