Chapter 1: The Sound of Rotors
The sea breeze carried the smell of salt and old decay. Julian stood frozen at the lip of the promontory, gravel crunching under his boots. When Vincent ripped the cane from his grip, the sudden emptiness in his palm felt colder than the wind.
"Vincent?" Julian’s voice barely cut through the surf below. "What are you doing?"
Vincent didn’t answer. His fingers were locked around the white aluminum rod, poised to fling it into the churning depths. But then the air shuddered. A rhythmic, deafening thrum battered their eardrums as a red-and-white search-and-rescue chopper crested the cliff face, its downdraft whipping Vincent’s white linen shirt against his ribs.
Vincent froze. His dark eyes flicked upward into the blinding noon sky. Through the cockpit glass, a spotter leaned out, binoculars trained straight on them. The calculated murder Vincent had staged as a tragic accident—a blind heir wandering off a scenic precipice—was now compromised under a surveillance lens.
"Damn it," Vincent hissed under his breath, dropping his arm. He jammed the cane back against Julian’s chest with a force that bruised. "Take it. Walk straight back toward the tree line. Now."
Julian’s fingers curled around the grip. His heart hammered like a trapped bird against his ribs. He adjusted his wraparound sunglasses, keeping his head angled slightly down. Vincent believed Julian was completely blind—a victim of the chemical fire that had claimed their father’s estate six months earlier.
What Vincent didn’t know was that three weeks ago, in the sterile quiet of a private clinic, light had returned. First as gray shadows, then as sharp, undeniable reality. Julian had kept the glasses on to survive.
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As they retreated from the cliff edge, Julian caught the red glare of the aircraft circling wide. He smelled the sulfur of Vincent's sweat, heard the shallow, panicked cadence of his brother's breath. The betrayal was no longer a lingering suspicion; it was an absolute truth.
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