Murder Deja Vu

paint and new carpet. Carl sat behind his father’s big carved antique desk, appearing smaller somehow, as if he didn’t quite fit the man who preceded him. He glanced up from his phone conversation, froze when he saw Reece.
    “Gotta go, Jasper. I’ll talk to you later.” With his eyes riveted on Reece, he said, “No, not tonight. Listen, sorry, but something just came up. I’ll take a rain check.” He placed the receiver on the cradle. “Reece. What…what are you doing here? The cops and FBI have been all over me, asking if I’ve seen you. Of course I said no. I didn’t tell them about yesterday. I wouldn’t. But they have to be keeping an eye on this place. The house too.”
    Carl looked every inch the executive. Reece found the suit and tie off-putting. Maybe men in charge of building McMansions were supposed to look like Wall Street big shots these days, but Reece had pictured himself less formal. More hands-on. Maybe because he’d never been the type to sit behind a desk.
    He noticed a sheen of perspiration sprout across Carl’s top lip. His eyes darted, as if he couldn’t face Reece straight on. Had he realized why Reece was here?
    “Doesn’t matter,” Reece said. “I’m turning myself in after this visit.”
    Carl rose to his feet. “You can’t. You’ll go back to prison.”
    A strange calm settled over Reece as soon as he closed the office door behind him. It was as if his whole life at that moment had fallen into place. Carl, on the other hand, looked as if he were about to dissolve into a puddle. “Maybe.”
    “You don’t have to, you know. I’ll help you get away. Up to Canada. Montreal’s only a couple hundred miles. From there you can get lost. They’ll never find you. You’ll be safe.”
    Reece tried to look as if he was considering the offer, then said, “Hmm, no. I thought about it, but that’s not how I want to live. Besides, I’d never get past the border.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, I’ve spent the last few hours wondering why.”
    Carl squinted. A tic twitched his left cheek as he lowered himself into his chair. “Why? Why what?”
    His gaze steady, Reece focused on his brother. “Why you framed me for Karen’s murder.”
    Carl’s weak laugh offered no sign of outrage. He planted his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Wha—? Where did you get that notion? You’re joking, right? You have to be.” His laughter died in his throat, and he slumped back into his chair, twisting his face in mock indignation. “How…how can you say that? You’re looking for someone to blame, and I’m the one left, is that it?”
    Reece hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and watched his brother squirm. He didn’t answer.
    “I told them at the trial you couldn’t have killed anyone. You heard me. What else could I have said? Haven’t I been there for you all these years? Supported you?” Rivulets of sweat crawled down from Carl’s hairline. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket for a handkerchief and dabbed it across his forehead and cheeks.
    If Carl were strapped to a lie detector, the needle would vault off the paper. “You could have said you killed her. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You killed Karen and left me to take the blame. Then you told Dad I confessed to you. He told me today when I visited him.”
    Carl made a strange noise. Not a laugh, not the sound of righteous anger. “The old man said that? He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s sick, out of touch with reality. I never said anything of the kind. Never.”
    “To bastardize the quote, ‘The gentleman doth protest too much.’”
    “It’s true, Reece. Think. Why would I kill Karen? We got it on a couple of times, like I told you. I barely knew her.”
    Reece almost could have believed his brother if he weren’t sweating like an overworked racehorse. Innocent men didn’t do that. They didn’t sputter lies. “You’re sweating, Carl. Why? It’s cool in here. Downright chilly, in fact. Must be sixty.”
    Carl pulled his shirt away from his neck and rotated his head. “Seems hot. I’m wearing a suit and tie. Hate the damn things.”
    Reece marveled at his own composure, words steady and unrushed. “Then why wear them? You’re the boss. You can do anything you want.”
    “Dad insisted. I got into the habit.”
    “Seems like you got into the habit of lying too. You lied to everyone. To me, to Dad, to the court. You’re lying now. Why?