Chapter 3 - Murphy Died Because I Wouldn’t Stop LookingI made the mistake of thinking my silence made Noah safe.
My brother was seventeen.
After our mother died, I became the closest thing he had to a parent. He lived in the little row house she left us in Dundalk, forty minutes from Adrian’s estate.
His entire world outside school was a ridiculous brown rescue dog named Murphy.
Murphy weighed fourteen pounds and believed he could fight mail trucks.
Three days after I found the poisoned meat, Noah called me crying so hard I could barely understand him.
“Claire. Murphy’s dead.”
I left work immediately.
Murphy was beside the backyard fence.
Noah had already covered him with a towel.
There was a piece of raw meat nearby.
I stopped him from touching anything else and called animal control and police.
Same smell.
Same presentation.
Dr. Hayes later confirmed the toxicology was consistent with the substance found near Atlas.
Noah sat on the back steps while I buried my face in my hands.
“Why would somebody poison Murphy?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I already suspected the answer.
Not because of Noah.
Because of me.
While police documented the yard, I noticed greasy butcher paper partially buried beneath leaves near the fence.
A red logo showed in one corner.
PIKE FAMILY MEATS — BALTIMORE SINCE 1974
My blood turned cold.
Graham.
His family had sold the business years earlier, but the company still existed as a regional meat supplier.
I photographed it before police collected it.
When I returned to the mansion the next morning, Graham was drinking coffee in Adrian’s study.
He smiled when he saw me.
“Family emergency resolved?”
That question nearly broke my composure.
I had told the housekeeping supervisor only that my brother’s dog had died.
I had never told Graham.
“How did you know it involved my family?”
His smile paused.
“People talk.”
“Apparently.”
Adrian entered before either of us continued.
Graham left ten minutes later.
Atlas had been lying near the fireplace.
The second Graham disappeared through the corridor, the dog relaxed.
Adrian noticed.
“You’ve been watching that.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I hesitated.
This was where I made my second mistake.
I didn’t tell him everything.
Not Murphy.
Not the butcher paper.
Not my notes.
Because Adrian DeLuca frightened me almost as much as Graham did.
I still didn’t know whether the stories about him were true.
I didn’t know whether accusing his closest adviser would protect Noah or put us deeper inside something dangerous.
So I only said:
“Atlas is afraid of Graham.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“Atlas is afraid of a lot of people.”
“No.”
I looked directly at him.
“He’s afraid differently around Graham.”
That night Adrian quietly gave me access to Atlas’s old veterinary file.
Most of it was routine.
Vaccines.
Infections.
Rehabilitation.
Then I reached the oldest record.
Eight years earlier.
Blast injury. Left auditory trauma. Laceration behind left pinna. Multiple contusions.
Location of incident:
Pike Cold Storage Facility No. 3.
I stopped breathing.
Atlas and Graham hadn’t merely known each other.
May you like
They had been injured in the same place.
On the same night.
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