"Whatever you're doing can wait."
Once again Peter Morgan thought he could order him around. His left eye twitched. His older brother's forceful answer burned like acid through him. No one told him what to do. He sighed. "No, my life can't wait."
"Dad's dead."
John stepped on the gas and his car took off at high speed. "He's what?"
He took his foot off the accelerator and pressed his lips together. At least no other car was near him on the freeway.
John's heart raced as Peter spoke with crisp syllables. "Dad is dead."
Adrenalin shot through him, electrifying his body. He steadied the wheel. "I don't care."
"I don't either."
No?Peter expected to be next in line and to inherit the entire House of Morgan. Then just as fast as the storm of emotions set off inside him, his body temperature cooled. Peter was too much like their father. John didn't trust him. He'd keep his words and sentences short. "So why are you calling me?"
"You should be at the funeral."
John rolled his eyes as he turned off of the 285. "Why? So you can pretend we have a family?"
"Victoria would want us to be together."
John's breathing hitched at the sucker-punch. Their dead baby sister deserved better than her name in the mud. Though he didn't need to say so, he did anyway. "Vicki's dead."
"I don't know how that happened."
John rubbed his forehead. Peter had to stop this conversation, now. No words could change any of the past. "You do, too. Dad did something to her. It's his fault."
"I don't know anything other than my sister died while I was away in grad school. You're my only brother."
What did their shared DNA have to do with the question? John's entire body stiffened—he needed to know the truth. "Peter, did you help Dad kill Vicki?"
"No, and if you have proof Dad did, then share."
John hesitated. There had never been any proof, just unanswered questions that were buried with a closed casket. Their father's death changed everything. "I'm working on it."
"Then you're too late. We're all that's left of the House of Morgan."
John let out a sigh. Peter was right, as he'd never learn the truth now. Then he swallowed back his bitterness. "You'll go straight to hell if you covered for Dad."
"I'm not involved. I loved her too."
Peter had been silent, distant, and even during childhood, always with their father, except when he took the heat for whatever John or Vicki had done. John lifted his chin, threw his baseball cap into the backseat, and turned his car into headquarters' parking lot. "What's the point of coming to the funeral? Dad and I had nothing to say to each other."
"You're not disinherited, despite how you intended to arrest him. Dad didn't care and even hoped you'd forgive him."
He parked the car, resisting the urge to check his hair in the rear-view mirror. All that mattered right now was booking Frank Hudson.
He shook his head. He'd never forgive, and Peter should never have, either. "How could you?"
"I never said I did. I never said anything."
Silence drove John away from trusting his older brother. He stepped out of the car, his every cell crawling with sweat. The humid air in Atlanta lacked the cool breezes coming off the ocean. "Peter..."
"Come back to Miami. There's nothing holding you there. Now that Dad's dead you can stop arresting all of his lowlife associates who will never darken our doors again."
"You knew?"
