“Tell me the truth, Connor. Where is Thomas Quinlan?”
Connor slapped his hands on his thighs and stood.
“That wasn’t a no. I’m going to pour a whiskey, and you ain’t gonna stop me.”
Trevor didn’t budge.
“Fine. Pour it. Answer the question. Where’s Thomas?”
Connor added two cubes of ice and stirred. He finished the drink in one long gulp, cleared his nostrils, and poured another.
“You made a lot of mistakes, Trev. You looked down on people above you. Couldn’t keep your temper in check. Lost the love of your life. Treated me like I was incapable of making it on my own.”
Another skill Connor mastered long ago: Flip the script. Make Trevor the villain.
"This game won’t work, C. Please, sit down.”
Connor did not comply. He ventured to Trevor’s desk and took a gander at the data flicks of Ana. They formed a large collection with family images going back to the brothers posing on their first day aboard Amity.
“I like this one,” Connor said. “Our first trip off world. They were still welding this place together.”
“Please. Sit.”
Connor sipped his whiskey as he fiddled with the data flicks.
“Those mistakes don’t amount to shit. You made it to the top of the pyramid anyway, bruv. No, your biggest fuckup was Thomas Quinlan. You brought that filth back into our lives. Everything he did is on you.”
“Blaming me won’t help ...”
“Shut the fuck up, Trevor. I love you to death, but Thomas was right. You are a smug sonofabitch.”
Trevor’s heart sank.
“You admit it. You spoke to him.”
Connor moved the dataflicks back into position and navigated around the desk. He reached into a side pocket.
“Catch.”
He tossed a pom at Trevor, who snagged it.
“What is ...?”
“Check the owner stamp.”
Trevor flipped over the pom and read the tiny engraving along the bottom which listed a name and gene stamp code.
“Thomas Quinlan. How did you get this?”
Connor smirked.
“See, you thought if Thomas was nearby, he couldn’t get away with anything nefarious. You believe in that whole ‘keep your enemies closer’ nonsense. That filth played you from the first day to the last.”
Trevor heard it in his voice. Connor sounded like a champion boasting of his victory.
“What did you do?”
Connor slipped onto the couch and crossed his legs.
“I killed him. You’ll never find the body. Not even a gene stamp.”
Trevor might as well have been run over by a Crossway train. The truth hurt less than the way it fell off his brother’s tongue: With calm, cool satisfaction.
“Connor ... I ... why?”
He pointed to Thomas’s pom.
“To save your life, bruv. Thomas had a phantom drill in there. He accessed the entire station. He met with Acasta to sell the secrets. He created off-book cubes to stash the money. But here’s the clincher: Those cubes were mirrored to your financials. That filth was setting you up, and it would’ve worked. A week from now, you’d be fucked with no way out. And it’s all down to you, Trev.”
Trevor believed every word. Wasn’t difficult. He came to this office as a pawn in a bigger game, so why not this? Too blind to see what the sociopath in his midst was planning all along.
Is it all true? He asked the Enzathi.
“The bag is not deceiving you,” Mau replied. “And yet, he is.”
How can both be true?
“The Enzathi believes the bag hides betrayal behind truth. He is one of many.”
