Five Sons, One Murder

THE BODY IN THE POOL The first scream shattered the silence at exactly 5:17 a.m. It came from the housekeeper, Mrs. Evelyn, whose trembling hands clutched the silver tray she had carried out of the kitchen. The tray struck the tiled floor with a deafening crash, sending a porcelain cup rolling beneath a garden chair. But Evelyn barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the swimming pool. Something was floating in the water. Something that should never have been there. "Jesus, have mercy!" She stumbled backward, one hand pressed against her mouth. The morning breeze brushed past the palm trees surrounding the mansion, disturbing their leaves with a soft rustle. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang as though the world had not just come to an end. Then Evelyn screamed again. "Help! Somebody, please! HELP!" Within minutes, the peaceful Williams estate had descended into chaos. Security guards rushed toward the pool. One of them immediately reached for his phone while another ran into the house, shouting for the other staff members. Nobody wanted to believe what their eyes were telling them. The man lying motionless in the swimming pool was Mr. Richard Williams. Millionaire businessman. Founder of Williams Global Holdings. Father of five sons. A man whose name commanded respect in business circles and whose wealth could purchase almost anything money could buy. Almost anything. Because, on that cold October morning, all the money in the world could not bring him back. By 5: forty-five, the first police vehicles had arrived. Yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the pool. Officers moved through the property, photographing evidence and questioning the terrified staff. An ambulance stood outside the mansion, although the paramedics needed only a few moments to confirm what everyone already feared. Richard Williams was dead. And the circumstances surrounding his death were deeply suspicious. There were no obvious signs of a struggle around the pool. The doors leading into the house had not been forced open. Nothing valuable appeared to be missing. Yet something was terribly wrong. The security cameras covering the rear garden had stopped recording shortly before midnight. And the dead man had been wearing his expensive wristwatch, but his phone was nowhere to be found. At 6:12 a.m., Inspector Daniel approached his superior. "Sir, we've contacted the family. His sons are on their way." The senior officer adjusted his gloves. "All five of them?" "Yes, sir." He stared at the mansion. "Then nobody leaves this property until we've spoken to every single one of them." He paused, studying the still water. "And find out who last saw him alive." Neither officer noticed the black vehicle parked beyond the estate's gates. Its windows were tinted. Its engine was running. And someone inside was watching everything. 7:03 a.m. Chad Williams arrived first. He stepped out of his black Mercedes, still dressed in the navy-blue trousers and white shirt he had worn to the hospital. At thirty-four, Chad was a successful surgeon, admired by his colleagues and frequently praised by his father for being the son who had made the family proud. He was also a man who disliked losing control. And as he walked toward the entrance, surrounded by police officers, he felt something unfamiliar creeping into his chest. Fear. "What's happening here?" he demanded, flashing his identification. "Why are there police officers all over my father's house?" A uniformed officer stepped forward. "Dr. Williams, I'm afraid there's been an incident." "What incident?" The officer hesitated. "Your father has passed away." For a moment, Chad did not move. He stared at the man as though he had spoken in a language Chad did not understand. "What?" "I'm sorry, sir." "No." The word escaped him before he could stop it. "No, that's impossible. I spoke to him yesterday." "At what time?" Chad's expression changed. "Why are you asking me that?" "It's a routine question, sir." "My father is dead, and the first thing you want to do is interrogate me?" "Dr. Williams—" "Take me to him." The officer reluctantly stepped aside. Chad walked through the garden, his footsteps slowing as the pool came into view. Then he saw his father's watch lying inside an evidence bag. Something flickered across his face. It was there for barely a second. But Inspector Daniel noticed. "Dr. Williams?" Chad turned sharply. "What?" "Do you recognize this watch?" Chad looked at the evidence bag. "Of course. It belonged to my father." "Did he ever take it off?" "No." "Not even before going swimming?" Chad's jaw tightened. "My father didn't swim at five in the morning." Inspector Daniel made a note. "Thank you. We'll need you to answer some questions." Chad looked toward the mansion, where his father's portrait hung above the staircase. For the first time in years, he felt like a little boy again, standing before a man whose approval he had spent his entire life trying to earn. Only now, there would be no more approval. No more arguments. No more second chances. His father was dead. And someone had put him in that pool. Michael arrived twenty minutes later. Unlike Chad, he came in an old car with a dented passenger door and a dashboard that rattled whenever the engine ran. His white shirt was wrinkled, his hair uncombed, and his eyes carried the exhaustion of someone who had spent the night fighting battles nobody else could see. At twenty-nine, Michael was a talented artist whose paintings had attracted occasional attention but never enough money to make a living. His father had never understood his choices. According to Richard Williams, art was a hobby, not a career. According to Michael, his father had spent his entire life mistaking money for happiness. He parked carelessly and hurried toward the house. "Where is he?" Nobody answered. "Where's my father?" Chad emerged from the entrance. Michael stopped. One look at his older brother's face was enough. "No." Chad said nothing. Michael shook his head. "No, no, no. You're lying." "I wish I were." Michael pushed past him and hurried toward the garden. When he saw the police tape, he froze. His breathing became uneven. "Oh, God." He covered his face with both hands. For a few seconds, he stood there silently. Then he turned toward Chad. "What happened?" "We don't know yet." Michael laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "Of course you don't." "What is that supposed to mean?" "It means that for once in your life, you don't have all the answers." "Michael, not now." "When, then? When are we supposed to talk? At Dad's funeral?" Chad stepped closer. "Watch your mouth." Michael's eyes flashed. "There he is. The perfect son. Always giving orders, always acting like the rest of us are beneath him." "Your father is dead." "And you think I don't know that?" Their voices attracted the attention of the officers. Inspector Daniel approached them. "Gentlemen, I understand this is a difficult morning, but I need both of you to remain calm." Michael looked at him. "Have you found whoever did this?" "Not yet." "Then find them." "We intend to." Michael glanced toward the pool. His expression hardened. "And when you do, I hope you ask why someone would want our father dead." Inspector Daniel studied him carefully. "Is there a reason you believe someone wanted him dead?" Michael went silent. It was only a moment. But it was long enough. "Mr. Williams?" the inspector pressed. Michael swallowed. "My father had enemies." "Who?" Michael looked at Chad. Then at the officers. Finally, he whispered, "You're going to have to ask my brothers." By eight o'clock, the remaining brothers had arrived. Prince came in a sleek black SUV, accompanied by two men who remained outside the gates. He wore a dark suit, expensive shoes, and an expression so unreadable that even the police officers seemed reluctant to approach him. At thirty-one, Prince was the family's greatest mystery. He had money, influence, and connections that his brothers rarely questioned aloud. People in certain circles knew his name. Some respected him. Others feared him. But nobody at the Williams estate knew how much trouble he might bring through its gates. When an officer asked him to identify the two men accompanying him, Prince smiled without warmth. "They're my associates." "Names, sir?" "Does it matter?" "It does to us." Prince leaned closer. "Then I suggest you do your job and find out." He walked inside before the officer could respond. Stephen arrived next. At thirty, he was the owner of a flourishing cement company, a business his father had helped him establish. His tailored shirt and expensive wristwatch suggested a man whose life was perfectly arranged. His eyes told a different story. They were red from lack of sleep. His phone vibrated repeatedly, but he ignored every call. When Chad approached him, Stephen barely looked up. "Is it true?" Chad nodded. Stephen closed his eyes. For a moment, his composure slipped. "Damn it, Dad." He turned away, pressing his fingers against his forehead. "Why now?" Chad stared at him. "What does that mean?" Stephen looked back. "Nothing." But it did not sound like nothing. Finally, Matthew arrived with his wife, Naomi. At twenty-seven, Matthew was the youngest of the five brothers. He was married to Naomi, a preacher known for her calm voice, charitable work, and unwavering faith. Naomi stepped out of the car first. She wore a simple cream dress and carried a small Bible against her chest. Her eyes moved across the mansion, the police vehicles, and the people gathered around the garden. Then she saw the pool. Her lips parted. "Oh, Lord." Matthew reached for her hand. "Don't look." But Naomi was no longer looking at the water. She was staring at something else. A second-floor window. The curtains were open. And behind the glass stood a woman watching the family. Naomi recognized her. Her fingers tightened around Matthew's hand. "Matthew," she whispered. "What?" Naomi looked away from the window. "Nothing." But the colour had drained from her face. Because she knew something the police did not. Something about Richard Williams. Something about the night before his death. And if the truth ever came out, the Williams family would never be the same again. 9:26 a.m. The five brothers were gathered in their father's study when Inspector Daniel entered. The room smelled of leather, polished wood, and the faint scent of the cigar Richard had smoked the previous evening. His enormous desk stood beneath a portrait of the family taken ten years earlier. In the photograph, all five boys were smiling. Now, not one of them could look at it. Inspector Daniel closed the door. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me." "We didn't exactly have a choice," Prince replied. The inspector ignored the remark. "I'll ask each of you a few questions. I expect honest answers." "Then you might be disappointed," Michael muttered. Stephen shot him a warning look. Inspector Daniel opened his notebook. "Who was the last person here to see your father alive?" Silence. The brothers exchanged glances. Chad answered first. "I spoke to him yesterday afternoon." "About what?" "Family matters." "What family matters?" "Personal ones." Inspector Daniel made a note. "And you, Michael?" Michael shifted in his chair. "I visited him last night." All four brothers turned toward him. Chad's expression darkened. "You did what?" Michael looked at him. "You heard me." "What time?" "Just after nine." Inspector Daniel leaned forward. "Why didn't you mention this earlier?" "Because nobody asked me." "Did you argue with your father?" Michael's silence was answer enough. "Yes," he finally admitted. "About what?" "My life. My work. Money. Pick one." "Did you threaten him?" Michael stared at the inspector. "No." "Did you leave the house before midnight?" "Yes." "Was he alive when you left?" Michael's eyes flickered toward the family portrait. "Yes." Inspector Daniel turned to Prince. "And you?" "I wasn't here." "Where were you?" "Out." "With whom?" "People you don't know." "Would they confirm your whereabouts?" Prince smiled. "Some might." "And the others?" "I suggest you ask them yourself." The inspector's pen stopped moving. "You're making this investigation unnecessarily difficult." "No, Inspector. Someone killed my father. That's what made this difficult." For the first time, Prince's expression changed. Beneath the arrogance was something cold. Something dangerous. Inspector Daniel turned to Stephen, who had been staring at the desk. "Mr. Williams?" Stephen looked up. "Yes?" "Where were you last night?" "At home." "Alone?" "Yes." "Can anyone confirm that?" Stephen rubbed his forehead. "No." The inspector wrote something down. Then he turned to Matthew. "And you?" Matthew sat straighter. "I was with my wife." Naomi's fingers tightened around her Bible. Inspector Daniel noticed. "Mrs. Williams, is that correct?" Naomi looked at her husband. Then at the inspector. "Yes." Her answer came too quickly. The inspector closed his notebook. "One final question for all of you." The brothers waited. "Did your father have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted him dead?" Nobody spoke. Then Michael laughed quietly. It was a bitter, exhausted sound. "Inspector, with all due respect, you've come to the wrong family if you're looking for a man everyone loved." Chad glared at him. But Michael continued. "Our father was rich. Powerful. Controlling. He had a way of making people feel small, even when he was helping them." He looked around the room. "Especially his own children." Stephen looked away. Matthew bowed his head. Prince's face became unreadable. And Chad said nothing at all. Inspector Daniel stood. "Thank you, gentlemen. For now, none of you may leave the estate without informing the police." He reached the door, then stopped. "One more thing. An anonymous tip was received early this morning." The brothers looked up. "The caller claimed that one of you murdered your father." For the first time since their arrival, all five men appeared genuinely shocked. Even Prince. Inspector Daniel watched them carefully. "Until we establish otherwise, every one of you is a suspect." He left the room. The door clicked shut. For several seconds, nobody moved. Then Stephen whispered, "Which one of us did it?" Michael turned toward him. "That's what we're all wondering, isn't it?" "No," Chad said sharply. "What we're wondering is who would accuse us of something like this." Prince rose from his chair. "Maybe someone who knows us better than we know ourselves." Matthew looked at his brothers. "We're family." Prince stopped at the door. "That has never stopped anyone from doing anything." He walked out. One by one, the others followed. Only Naomi remained behind for a moment. She stared at the family portrait. Five sons. One dead father. And a woman whose secret could destroy them all. Her phone vibrated. An unknown number. One message. Keep your mouth shut, Naomi. You know what happens if you tell them the truth. She read it twice. Then she deleted it. Outside, the morning sun shone brightly over the Williams estate. But inside the mansion, darkness had only just begun.