At Easter dinner, my daughter-in-law pulled my chair away in front of 12 people and laughed / Chapter 32 / 63

Chapter 32 - THE DEAD MAN’S WHISPER

A cold chill crawled up the back of my neck. "Cyanide? In a federal penitentiary? Harold was completely broken, Julian. He had no money, no allies, no influence left. Why would anyone bother to kill him?"

"Because Harold requested a formal meeting with the United States Attorney General yesterday morning," Julian replied, pulling a sealed manila file from his briefcase. "Harold offered to trade testimony for a transfer to a minimum-security facility."

"Testimony against who? Victor Sterling is awaiting trial in Switzerland, and Cross is under house arrest in Virginia!"

"Testimony against the *real* architect," Julian whispered.

The study fell dead silent. The rain outside lashed violently against the bay windows, echoing the rising panic in my chest.

"What are you saying, Julian?" I stood up, my voice trembling. "You told me in my cottage that there were three men who tried to kill Arthur: Harold, Victor Sterling, and Raymond Cross. We defeated all three! We took their empire!"

Julian walked to the window, staring out into the dark, rain-swept grounds of Oakridge.

"I told you what Arthur believed when he wrote those directives twenty-two years ago, Clara," Julian said, his voice laced with profound sorrow. "Arthur identified Harold, Victor, and Raymond because they were the ones who openly attacked him in corporate court. But Arthur was an engineer and a visionary, not a counter-intelligence officer. He didn't see the hand that guided all three of them."

Julian turned around, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity.

"Harold told the prison chaplain ten minutes before he took his insulin that he never hated Arthur Miller. He said Arthur was a brother to him. But he was ordered to destroy Arthur by the man who owned them all—the man who funded Harold’s first venture capital fund in 1985, the man who secured Sterling’s shipping licenses, and the man who financed Raymond Cross’s first senate campaign."

"Who is he?" I demanded, my fingernails biting into the palms of my hands. "Tell me his name!"

"Harold didn't give a name," Julian said, holding up a blood-stained scrap of paper found under Harold’s mattress. "He only wrote a location, and a date."