Free A Rush to Violence by Christopher Smith Page A

without a trace. Given her record as an assassin, she’d know that was the smartest move if she was going to get her and her daughter out of the city. And for good reason. Everything had been left to Camille. Upon her death, Emma would receive her grandfather’s fortune. And upon Emma’s death? Finally, the rest of Camille’s siblings would receive what they perceived as their fair share of the Miller pot.
    Marty sat on the sofa in his office and picked up the photograph of Camille and Emma that he printed off earlier. The way Kenneth Miller structured his will was loaded with danger. Had he not seen that? Did he believe that his other children wouldn’t turn to murder to get their hands on his money? It was possible. As bright as Miller sounded in his letters to Camille, murder was so far on the fringe of what his other children might do given Camille’s past, he likely would have dismissed it even if it had occurred to him.
    A few letters Marty read earlier needed to be read again. Of the hundred or so Carr gave him, these particular letters Marty felt were the most important because of what they revealed about the relationship shared between Kenneth and Camille, and why he believed she was in the city now.
    One was dated July 16, 2006. It from was Kenneth to Camille, written “somewhere over the Atlantic. I’ve had three martinis and I still loathe the red eye. Should I have another drink? Would a fourth put me into a trance? Would I float above the cabin and have an out-of-body experience? Probably not. I’d just get off the plane loaded, which I’m sure would thrill my doctor. I’m sitting here next to a woman who apparently doesn’t understand that perfume should be an intimate experience, which is something your mother always knew, thank God. But I’m rambling. Maybe the martinis are working, after all. Anyway, kid, there’s something I wanted to tell you before I left, but I knew it would just disrupt a beautiful visit with you and Emma, so I didn’t. I decided to save it for this letter. It’s no secret that I’m getting old and that people are paying attention to the clock. With age comes opportunists, at least in our family. (You’re the exception. You always have been.) But your brothers and sisters are another story. Your brother, Scott, came by the house about a week before I visited you and suggested that he be the executor of my will, so if anything happens to me—a stroke, a heart attack, perhaps being struck down by a mysterious car hired by him—he could step in if I was a vegetable (or a dead vegetable) and take over from there. I told him I wasn’t at the point of choosing an executor yet. He left in a fit and I haven’t heard from him since. The vultures are circling, I’m afraid. I expect more of that as your mother and I grow older.”
    Another letter, this one from Camille, dated April 28, 2011.
    “Just got off the phone with big brother Michael and I had to write. He’s almost out of money, which in our family means he’s down to the last few million Mom gave him. He was all panicky and upset and asking if I’d loan him some money because you won’t. He actually said he’s in “dire straits.” I told him to take a hike to the poorest parts of the Bronx and New Jersey, and then to reassess his condition. He wasn’t having any of it. He went on and on about how he could turn my ass in for all the unlawful things I did when I was young. He made the point of calling me a murderer, which I couldn’t argue with. He told me he never loved me and that I’d regret this one day. The whole conversation was ugly, not that that surprised me much. At the end, he started to beg again, which was so pathetic, I just hung up. What’s weird is that Sophia pulled the same thing a few weeks ago. I don’t think I told you about our conversation. She wasn’t nearly as harsh as Michael, but she has her delicate ways and if you read through them, you know they’re all backed by hammers