I was floored. That's the only word for it. Absolutely floored.

Okay, I had been thinking up a lot of possibilities about who this mysterious individual was, one who had Mr. Rodwell and Christopher in such a twist. I had thought mafia lords and cartel heads, assassins and spies. Maybe world class terrorists who were planning on blowing up the President’s house. Or, better yet, Usama Bin Laden secretly resurrected as a ballet dancer (I don't even know what that last one meant, only that I would have believed it). It could have been absolutely anyone.

What I mean to say is, I would have believed anything. Anything except for what they said.

My eyes flew from one face to the other like a ping pong ball. Tasha was sitting very still, just staring, for once rendered speechless. Clearly, she hadn't expected this either.

Okay, if she wasn't going to ask it, I would. I was a strong person. I was blunt. I was straightforward.

"Huh?"

No one answered. Mr. Rodwell wasn't looking at the picture on the bed but his lips were pressed together so tight they had turned white. Christopher looked slightly sick.

Okay, one more try. "Your brother?"

Still no answer. The smile of the man in the picture seemed to grow bigger and bigger, ecstatic at the look on our faces.

"What do you mean your brother? This man's your brother?" I had a feeling I wasn't asking exactly lawyer-worthy questions.

"Yes, Miss Mahal. Our brother," Mr. Rodwell finally forced out from between tightly locked teeth.

"B-but, he's bad! You said so!" Again, I had the feeling this argument would not hold up in a court of law either.

"And we're saints?" Mr. Rodwell wanted to know. "Bad is just a relative term anyway."

I threw him a sour look. "What I mean is, how's this possible?"

"He's a bad man, just like all other bad men," Christopher said.

"But—"

"Just tell her," Mr. Rodwell interjected, going to his perch by the window again. The sun was sinking now, slowly, performing an interplay of light and shadow on the stage of the world.

"Miss Mahal," Christopher began, calling my attention back. He cleared his throat, like a kindergarten teacher getting ready to tell us about the Big Bad Wolf. "You should know, Mr. and Mrs. Rodwell couldn’t have children. So they adopted unfortunate kids and raised them as their own."

"Really?" I asked. I had known Mr. Rodwell was adopted. He had confessed as much in our living room just a few days ago. But all the rest of them too? That I hadn't seen coming. "All of you? Even you?"

Christopher bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "Yes. But the thing is, I am actually a Rodwell."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"My father was Mr. Rodwell too. He was Jeremiah Rodwell's brother. He—"

"Who's Jeremiah?"

Mr. Rodwell snorted. "You aren't that stupid. Focus, please. He's our father, of course."

I ignored him. "Please continue," I said to the much more pleasant brother.

"Yes, well, my parents died in a plane crash, and my uncle and aunt took me in. Fra—"

"But you call them your parents," I interjected again. I knew I should be more worried about the man in the photo, but these little pieces were interesting too. I had to know. I had to get my story straight.

"I didn't really know that I wasn't their son until the habit of calling them mother and father had settled in already. And after all that time, the knowledge really didn't matter anymore."

"Oh," I said.

"So," he continued. "I am an actual Rodwell in the family. And Fra—"

"But then why don't you head Rodwell & Sons?"

"Zara, stop interrupting," Tasha hissed. "They didn't interrupt you."

"I am mentality challenged," I reminded her. "Now, why don't you head the company if you are the only real Rodwell?"

"I didn't say I was the only real Rodwell, Miss Mahal. Frank is a Rodwell too."

My eyes went wide. "Frank? You mean this Frank?" I jabbed the nose of the man in the photo.

Christopher looked down. "Yes, this Frank. His parents died in the same plane crash mine did. And Clara Rodwell took the two of us in."

"Oh," I said. A Rodwell did this to me. A Rodwell. "Then...what happened?"

"Well, you asked just now why a Rodwell doesn't head Rodwell & Sons Enterprises, right? Well, that's what Frank had in his head too. That a Rodwell should be at the head of the company. Son or daughter." He chuckled. "Alexander was neither."

A charge of tension shot through the air. I looked at Mr. Rodwell's face to gouge his reaction…and got nothing for my troubles. He didn't look around, or back, or anywhere. I wondered what it was he was looking for in the twilight swathed streets down below. Was he looking for remnants of his past? Was he looking for little boys riffling in trash? Or was he looking for rich scornful men watching these boys with condescension? Could he see that far down anyway?

I chuckled to alleviate the tension, the sound nervous and wrong. "He's not a girl, that's for sure."

This time, I could have sworn I got a small smile. Though when I blinked, it wasn't there. Maybe not, then...

"Frank has always been a very eccentric boy. From the time when he was small, he was always very...proud, I guess you could call it. Mother and Father let it rest, though. It's not easy to lose your parents so young in life, they said, so—"

"How old was he?"

"Five," he said. "So, yes, he remembered his parents alright, not like me. I was only a baby when it happened, so I knew nothing. He was very proud of being a Rodwell. You see, at first it was just the two of us, Frank and me. So there weren't any problems. But then father came across Alexander when he was out overseeing a factory for a day. And that's when everything went down the ditch.

"Father was besotted with the clever little boy who knew just how to charm a cafeteria lady into letting him sleep in her shop after hours. The smart eleven-year-old who had taught himself how to read and write by scourging in garbage cans for the books rich kids threw out, who spoke with the most perfect culture and class imaginable, even as he scratched the dirt from his cheek. The intelli—"

"That's enough, Christopher," Mr. Rodwell said quietly. "The others might not see it, but I know when you're mocking me."

"The rude stone-cold stick-up-the-arse little boy who never complained," Christopher continued, ignoring him. "Father immediately brought him home to mother. Initially, the boy resisted this seeming domestication with a vengeance. But then he started to gradually settle in. But Frank never warmed up to him. Not for lack of trying by the family, of course. Lack of trying by Alexander, maybe, but that was just to be expected," he added drying.

"Refrain from needless commentary," Mr. Rodwell cautioned.

"Like I was saying, father was completely taking in by Alexander. But that's not to say that they treated the rest of us any differently. We were all their children, as far as they were concerned. But Frank wasn't of one mind with the rest of us. And when father saw his tendencies, he—well, he thought Alexander was a better candidate for leading the company."

"Christopher..." Mr. Rodwell warned, again.

"Alright, alright..." Christopher conceded. "Father never actually said that the company was to be his alone. As a matter of fact, right this moment, as far as the world's concerned, the company belongs to mother. But Frank didn't consider that enough. You see, he wanted Alexander to have absolutely nothing to do with it, because he wasn't a Rodwell."

I looked at Mr. Rodwell—who wasn’t Mr. Rodwell at all; did he even know his real surname? He was taking this remarkably well. Probably used to it by now.

"So...Frank up and left?" I asked. "Because of Ale—Mr. Rodwell?"

"Oh, no... that's not when that happened. You see, after some years, mother got tired of all of us boys running around her house. She wanted a girl—"

It wasn't me who interrupted him this time. A thud came from Mr. Rodwell's general direction. We all turned to find his fist planted firmly on the window in front of him. Apparently he had just punched it. I thanked all those above that the glass was strong. Otherwise we would have had to scrap him off the street below.

"Alex, I don't have to continue," Christopher said softly. I looked at him in shock. What? Christopher was considerably politer than Mr. Rodwell, true, but he was so to other people, not to his brother. Why was he suddenly getting so...whatever it was he was getting?

Mr. Rodwell turned on his heel and heeded toward a bar at the side of the room, one I hadn't noticed before. He picked up a crystal decanter and sloshed its questionable contents into a tumbler. Then he proceeded to empty the whole thing down his throat.

I frowned.

"Please continue." His voice grated on my ears. "I am fine."

"Okay," Christopher started. "Well—"

"Wait," I said, eyes still on Mr. Rodwell. "Can you please not do that here?" I requested.

"What?" Christopher asked. "Not do what?"

"Not you," I said. "Mr. Rodwell, please don't do that here."

Mr. Rodwell turned, a freshly filled glass in his hand. "Excuse me?" His voice was strained.

"Just—don't drink that here," I motioned toward the glass in his hand. "You don't need it. But if you still think you do, please drink it outside."

He narrowed his eyes at me and then, deliberately, took a long gulp from the glass. "This is my house, Miss Mahal," he reminded me, lowering the glass, his voice slightly hoarse. "I do what I want to do. Don't dictate me."

"Bu—"

"Zara, please," Tasha said, sounding tired. "This is his house. You are being a bitch again. And this is no time for that discussion. Let Christopher talk."

I glared at her, then let it go—with some difficulty. I did mutter "Coward," under my breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. Why? Because he was trying to drown out whatever it was in the story that troubled him. The craven's way out. But clearly these were only my views.

"Shall I continue?" Christopher asked, sounding drained after all the interruptions.

"Okay," I said, holding my palms up in surrender. "I am sorry. No more interrupting." He cocked his eyebrow. Smart man. "Fine, only when I feel a really pressing need," I rephrased.

He sighed. "Where was I?"

"Your mother wanted a girl," I prompted.

"Yes. Well, mother thought the idea of a sister was the best one possible. It would alleviate the tension between the rest of us. It was perfect. And in a little orphanage she found just the right little girl. Arianna."

Mr. Rodwell's back was to us now, but I could see his fingers curl around the glass like he wanted to shatter it. I think if it had been any thinner he would have succeeded in his attempt.

"Arianna was an angel. She was just the kind of sweet little thing a boy wants to protect." There was such profound sadness in his voice that I felt it fill me up to the throat. I had a feeling Arianna was someplace they couldn't bring her back from. "She filled our house with laughter and light. All of us boys dotted on her, but Alexander—"

"Christopher," Mr. Rodwell's voice was barely a hiss, but I had a feeling he wanted to stick a knife up his brother's kidney.

"Yes..." Christopher looked down. "I-I am sorry." He cleared his throat. I looked at Tasha and could see the tears lurking behind her eyes. She feared the same thing I did, but she felt it more deeply, as the sadness was connected so personally with the person she loved.

"Well, Arianna was close to all of us. But still, being boys, we always competed for her attention. And, as we grew older, it was this competition that introduced her to Frank's friends." Mr. Rodwell filled the glass more than half this time and drowned it in one huge gulp. "Frank thought she would enjoy partying with them. And she did. But that's not what they had in mind. They—"

"Christopher," Mr. Rodwell's voice was slightly choked. "Finish it." He threw another glass in, this one almost filled to the rim. I winced. If he didn't stop soon, he was going to get poisoned.

Christopher looked at me and then at Tasha, his eyes curiously too bright. He looked like he needed some of what Mr. Rodwell was having.

Tasha scooted closer and wrapped herself around his arm. He leaned his head against hers. I almost broke down right then and there. It would have been nice to have someone to comfort me too. Not that I needed comfort, of course. Just a passing thought. "Well, I think you know what happened next." He shook his head, as if to see clearly through a dark memory. "Everyone was devastated, Frank no less than the rest of us. But—well, Alexander blamed him. I guess all of us did, in one way or the other, but Alexander didn't see any need to spare him. I think, in what followed, the two of them would have happily killed each other—"

"I would have," Mr. Rodwell confessed. "I still will."

"Frank left home after that. I think mother and father were slightly relieved, even though they would never have admitted it. We never knew where he was for some years. He never contacted any of us. We just told the rest of the world that he had been devastated after Arianna's death and left. Perfectly understandable. No one questioned. Everyone understood. Alexander took up looking after the company and I joined the special forces. We became, over the years, if not a happy family, then at least a content one.

"Now, being in the special forces does have its own set of advantages. It was some two years ago that Frank's name appeared on my radar. There were pictures, you see, so I knew for sure it was him. His name came up connected to almost all kinds of felonies one knows. Deep crimes too; I don't mean carjacking. From drugs trafficking to human trafficking to weapons smuggling.

"I tried to bring it to the attention of the higher ups, but they just shut me up, saying it wasn't as big a risk as I made it to be. And I guess they were right. Frank was in no manner as bad a terrorist as any of the others out there. To them, he was just one name among many. And there was nothing we could do about it anyway.

"You see," Christopher ran his fingers through Tasha's hair, his eyes far away, "Frank had hit upon the most ingenious of ideas to continue his operations. He never set foot on our soil. He always stayed away, in countries across the world. And he was, is, a citizen of them all. Now, we could have requested for him to be extradited, of course, if we saw the need. Which," he added sourly, "apparently, we didn't. But the thing is, nations don't really jump upon the idea of extraditing someone without proper proof. And Frank never left behind any. The fact that he was on our lists was only thanks to informants and rats on the inside of his operations. But none of them could get hold of anything more substantial than glimpses of him being present at a particular place at a particular time. Not very strong evidence in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, countries are always nit-picky about extraditing a national anyway.

"So," he said, nodding, the spell about Arianna almost forgotten now. But I could still feel her hovering somewhere around us. "There was nothing we could do to get our hands on Frank. Not until now, that is."

"Until now?" I asked.

"Now that he's here," Mr. Rodwell said. He slammed his glass down.

"Oh."

"Yes," Christopher agreed. "He's here. Again, I did try to bring this to the attention of my higher ups, but again they send me off saying that there was no proof and that I needed a break. Also, I was taking this too personally, something that a good agent always avoids. I wonder why," he added wryly.

I frowned. "But you're still after him."

"No, I am not, Miss Mahal." He smiled. "I am on vacation."

It took me a moment to understand what he was trying to say, but eventually, I got there. I had to smile too.

But now Tasha had another question. "Why go after him at all?" When everyone looked at her in surprise, she hurried to explain, "Not that I don't want him caught and rotting in a dungeon, but, like you said, he's just a bad man like other bad men. I understand that you have a personal connection with him, but I don't get why you would want to risk it in the first place."

Mr. Rodwell had picked his glass again, as if rethinking his thirst. He raised it at her. "Hit the nail right on the head there, Miss Evans. Frankly, I confess myself astonished. You see, the fact that Frank's here isn't as shocking as the fact that he risked it. He knows Christopher and I are here. He knows if he comes here, we would try to get to him. So why did he come? Why risk it? To send a message? Why after so many years? No, Miss Evans, that's not what I think. No, I think he's planning something. I don't have any idea what, but he is."

Christopher nodded. "Yes. That's exactly what came to my mind. I don't usually make it a habit to ask Alexander for anything, considering his none too ethical methods of getting them, but in this case, I had no other choice. I might have some friends in the establishment who could help me, but I didn't have the connections or the means to get to Frank. And so I needed the only person I could think of who might not be squeamish about getting to him whatever way he could." He motioned with his hand at Mr. Rodwell.

"Okay," I nodded, now trying to piece the rest together. "So, how do Fred and I come in?"

But before Christopher could reply, a phone rang. Mr. Rodwell put his hand in his pocket and retrieved the blaring contraption.

"Yes," he said in a clipped voice, pressing it to his ear.

There was silence as he listened to what the other person had to say. His eyes flickered toward me.

"Alright, come up."

Putting the phone back into his pocket, he looked at all of us.

"They found Mrs. Hudgens' killer."

******************************************************

Good morning, or evening, or night, readers,

This chapter contains some narration relative to the law of extradition. Now, according to my research, the law of extradition is something that's mostly managed around treaties, and is, in fact, not a law in the general sense at all. But it's entirely possible that I might have interpreted it wrong and there's something here that doesn't complement reality. If so, you are more than welcome to correct me, and I will try to incorporate your suggestions.

Otherwise, pls do comment, vote and share.

Your Author,

Aqsa