Chapter 4: Blood Ties and Betrayal

"Who was it? Who killed brother!" I lurched forward, blood pounding in my ears. I reached for the silk, but Natalie hid it in her sleeve, her eyes darting to the locked door. She tossed the envelope into the fireplace without hesitation. Flames curled the paper black, the room filling with the scent of scorched memories. I tried to snatch it back, but Natalie held me tight. I could only watch as the last trace of my brother turned to ash.

Her arms were iron, pinning me in place. I struggled, tears burning my cheeks. "Sister-in-law..." My voice cracked, barely a whisper. In all these years, I’d seen Natalie’s gentleness, her dignity, her sorrow, her innocence—but never such hatred burning in her clear eyes. It was like a storm sweeping across a lake—violent, impossible to ignore.

Her hatred caught in my chest, hot and consuming. I wanted to fight, to do something—anything. Yet the words she spoke were the opposite of her expression. She smoothed her hair, face softening into the gentle mask she wore at church socials. "The dead are gone. The living should live well. There’s no sense in throwing your life away for so-called revenge."

Her tone was soft, but final. In a heartbeat, the hatred vanished, replaced by her usual fragile smile—like I’d only imagined the storm. I blinked, unsure if any of it was real.

I wanted to keep asking, but Natalie changed the subject. She cleared her throat, straightened her skirt, and stood up as if she hadn’t just been staring into the abyss. "Jamie, where is the person who brought the letter?"

"In the guest room. The doctor said he probably won’t wake till tonight."

"Take me to see him."

Her command was quiet but impossible to refuse. I led her down the hall, old floorboards creaking, my mind racing with questions. I was used to obeying her after years of her careful care. The guest room was dim, the air thick with rubbing alcohol. The deputy lay motionless, swathed in bloody bandages, lips chapped, face gray in the flickering lamp light.

"He’s suffered enough—truly pitiful," Natalie sighed, gathering her dress as she sat by the bed. She reached out, fingers brushing his feverish forehead, expression unreadable. Just as I thought she’d check his wounds, a knife flashed from her sleeve and, without hesitation, she plunged it into his chest.

The movement was swift, silent—a single, practiced thrust. The room filled with the metallic tang of fresh blood. Blood spurted. The deputy, who’d been pretending to be unconscious, opened his eyes in shock, but could only watch as Natalie twisted the knife. He gasped once, hands scrabbling at the sheets, then went limp. He died with his eyes open.

My legs went numb. For a second, I couldn’t remember how to breathe. The distance was too close; blood splattered across Natalie’s face. A warm droplet landed on her cheek, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she seemed almost relieved. She wiped it away with her sleeve, a bright smile blooming on her lips. "People who know too much never live long."

Her smile was dazzling—the kind you’d see in a magazine ad—if not for the blood still smeared on her skin. "Sister-in-law..." My voice was a croak. I stumbled back, hand over my mouth. I instinctively stepped forward, but her gaze stopped me cold—sharp as knives, a warning clear as a slap. She took out a handkerchief, wiped the knife clean, and calmly sheathed it before looking up at me. Her eyes held a smile, but her words were full of sorrow: "Jamie, I am destined to fail Caleb."

Her voice broke on his name, echoing in the silence. For a moment, I almost believed she was just another grieving widow. At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant.

But when Natalie carefully dressed to meet the President, I understood everything. As she powdered her face and fixed her hair, I saw the resolve in her eyes—the kind that doesn’t come from love, but from necessity. In the end, it had come to this. No one could do anything about it.

I felt small, insignificant—a bystander in my own family’s story. I looked at the desolate, cold funeral parlor, unable to comprehend how the once-glorious family had fallen so low. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch, silent witnesses to our undoing.

Amidst the wailing and sobbing, I could no longer hold back my grief. I threw myself onto Caleb’s casket, weeping bitterly. My fists beat the polished wood, my cries echoing through the empty hall. The world outside shrank to the size of that box.

I don’t know how long I cried—only that, for a time, it seemed as if all sound had faded from the world. The room felt timeless, my sobs fading to hiccups, breath coming in ragged gasps. I curled up, pressing my cheek to the cool wood.

Wiping the dried tears from my eyes, I said to the old caretaker, "Go call the family elders and have that woman Natalie cut off from the family."

My voice was hoarse but steady. The old caretaker nodded, shoulders sagging, and shuffled away to do as I asked. But as the house fell silent, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Natalie’s story was just getting started—and that none of us were safe.