The Second Phone

Richard didn't argue. He didn't ask how I found the gun. He just ran.

We piled into the BMW, Richard behind the wheel, his knuckles white against the leather. The engine roared as we sped down the driveway, the gravel crunching violently under the tires.

"Where is she?" I asked, my voice tight. "Where on the river?"

"The bridge," Richard said, swerving onto the main road. "The old stone bridge. Where Julian... where the accident happened."

"Why would she go there?"

"Because she's smart," he said, his voice cracking. "She looked up the police report. She saw the location. She went to see where her uncle died."

"And where her mother died," I added softly.

Richard glanced at me, pain etched into his features. "I didn't know, Helen. About the baby. Not until later. Not until Julian called me from Mexico and told me."

"You still lied," I said. "For twenty years."

"I was protecting her."

"From who? Julian? Or yourself?"

He didn't answer. He just pressed harder on the gas.

I pulled out Richard's phone. I needed to see the text again.

*Dad, I'm at the river. I found something.*

What had she found? The water had risen with the storm. The banks were eroded.

Maybe she found what Mrs. Gable had seen thirty years ago.

I scrolled through Richard's recent calls.

*Julian (Burner).*
*Simon Blackwood.*
*Julian (Burner).*

Then I saw something else. A contact saved simply as *Brother*.

But it wasn't a phone number.

It was a location ping.

Richard saw me looking.

"He gave me a tracker," he confessed. "A burner phone. He keeps it in his car. In case he needs... extraction."

"He has a car?"

"An old sedan. Parked in the woods behind the estate. I bought it for him last week."

I tapped the contact. A map opened.

The dot wasn't at the estate.

It was moving. Fast.

Along the river road. Toward the bridge.

"He's tracking her," I whispered. "He's not just going there. He's hunting her."

"How far ahead is he?" Richard asked.

"Two miles. Maybe less."

I looked at the gun in my lap. It was heavy, cold. A relic of a violence I thought we had buried.

"Drive faster," I said.

Richard nodded. The speedometer climbed. 60. 70. 80.

The road blurred into a tunnel of rain-slicked asphalt and dark trees.

We passed the turnoff for Mrs. Gable's cottage. We passed the old mill.

The river was swollen, a dark, churning beast running alongside the road.

I looked at the tracker again.

The dot had stopped.

Right at the bridge.

"He's there," I said.

Richard slammed on the brakes as we rounded the final bend. The car skidded, fishtailing on the wet leaves, before coming to a halt.

The bridge loomed ahead. An old stone arch, covered in ivy and moss. Below it, the river roared, high and angry.

There was a car parked on the shoulder. An old, gray sedan.

Julian's car.

But it was empty. The driver's door was open.

And further down, near the water's edge, I saw a flash of color.

Pink.

Maya's raincoat.

She was standing on the bank, looking down at something in the mud.

And behind her, emerging from the shadows of the bridge, was a man.

He was walking slowly. Calmly.

He raised a hand.

"Maya!" I screamed, throwing the car door open.

But the wind snatched my voice away.

She didn't hear me.

But the man did.

He turned. Even in the darkness, I saw the smile.

He wasn't holding a weapon.

He was holding a phone.

And on the screen, bright and glowing in the night, was a single word.

*Brother.*