Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
To begin with, why would he get all dressed up just to sit on the couch and end his own life? Why not just do it in his pajamas or his workout clothes? On the day of his death, he wore blue jeans and a button-down shirt—things people only wear when they expect to run into other people.
My next clue was the gun itself. The police claim Danny was the one who fired it. They pointed to gunshot residue on his fingers as proof of that fact. However, I have since learned that gunshot residue can be transferred from one person to another simply by clasping hands. So, in my mind, that means the killer was aware of police procedure and staged the scene.
I’m not even sure where Danny got the gun. The police tracked down the owner of a store where they said Danny purchased the gun legally. But the brother I knew didn’t even like weapons. On all his adventures and in all the stories, he wrote, he never once expressed interest in firearms. If he actually bought the gun, he must have had a good reason. Otherwise, I assume that the gun purchase was something else that was set up by the killer. Maybe they forged his signature or found someone who looked enough like Danny to fool the store clerk.
There are a lot of questions, but the one thing that feels certain is that the Corellos had a hand in my brother’s death. And I’m going to be next. I’m as sure of that as I am of my own breath. My hours are numbered. Any moment now, the door will burst open and I’ll be showered with a hail of bullets. Or more likely, Corello and his henchmen will take me to a quiet, remote place where they can finish me off in peace.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to speak with Frankie again. He’s as much of a casualty in this war as I am. He doesn’t know who his father is, not really. I’m convinced that no matter how deep Frankie’s ties go, he’s not involved in murder. Whether he will side with his father or stick his neck out to protect me remains to be seen. I feel awful about using him the way I did. If I had a chance, I would at least try to explain myself. It’s not like I’m chasing a byline or anything so selfish. I just want justice for someone who meant the world to me, who was killed in the line of duty.
More than ever, I’m convinced that Danny was working on something when he died. The subject of his research got wind of his inquiries and silenced him before he could publish anything. It’s possible the police are involved in a cover-up, although it’s also possible that they are simply incompetent.
Either way, I can’t look to them for help right now. There is no way I’m going to walk into a police station and explain what I’ve been up to. They won’t be sympathetic, and they probably won’t even believe me.
Taking my water bottle back to the couch, I resume my vigil. This is the best spot in the entire apartment, I think. When they kill me, all I will have to do is lie down, and I’ll fall into the same position as my brother. We’ll be twins in death the way we never were in life. The only difference is that Danny knew what he was writing about, while I only have vague clues.
The word “clue” sticks in my mind. I turn it over in my thoughts as if I’m running my fingers along the lip of a rare vase. It starts out with a harsh sound, and the “l” in the middle makes it seem almost funny. I remember a board game from years ago, the one that Danny and I used to play after dinner most nights.
“Clue,” I say out loud. I have a clue. I took it from Corello’s desk before he caught me.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the tiny journal. Its cover is nondescript; there is no writing or pattern on the leather binding. Opening it up, I can see a list of numbers in columns. I page through it, sensing a pattern. On each page, there are three columns. Each column has a set of digits in pairs.
I page through the rest of the journal, discovering that it is only halfway full. There are no words, no symbols, no anything except these cryptic numbers. It takes me a while to recognize what I’m looking at. It must be some kind of ledger.
I get excited. If this notebook is what I think it is, then it contains receipts of transactions of some kind. Maybe one column is the originator, and the next is the receiver. Following that logic, one of the columns should stand for the dollar amount. There are no decimals or anything indicating that the transactions are monetary, but I notice that the columns on the right have bigger numbers than either of the other two.