"His were the only fingerprints on the murder weapon," Hank told his brother.
"But why would he kill Julian?" Sam questioned his younger brother. He couldn't fathom any plausible reason of why Nicholas Crane would murder his own father.
Hank smirked at the older man's need for rationality. He didn't need a motive. He needed facts. Cold hard facts. Fox's prints were on the letter opener. The coroner confirmed that it was the murder weapon. Fox was evasive in his responses to the questions Hank posed the household. And he was sure that the unknown DNA was Fox's. Who else would have matching alleles to the victim? Most importantly, he had the opportunity. He'd worry about the why later.
"There are people with reasons to want Julian dead. Fox just doesn't seem to be one of them," Sam said more to himself than to anyone in particular. "TC has hated Julian for years, Theresa was attacked by him that very night, she admitted to having an affair with Ethan, Theresa and Ethan found the body."
"And Luis has hated the Cranes for years," Hank added critically
"But the truth of the matter is that the only people who could have possibly murdered Julian lived in that house."
"It would be easy to make copies of the keys," Hank blurted out loud. "But you're right," he corrected, hoping that his brother wouldn't read any further into his remark. "Fox is guilty. And if we search his room, you'll find that motive you are so hell bent on uncovering." I'll make sure of that.
The sultry sounds of jazz filtered through Fox's room as he nursed his soul with the bitter-sweet taste of bourbon. He had taken his father's entire liquor supply and locked himself in his room. For two weeks, three days, twelve hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-six seconds he drank and sulked about Theresa. Two weeks, three days, fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds he spent without the only person who ever loved him, the only person he ever loved. All that remained of their clandestine love affair were memories and the charred ashes of photographs and secret letters. Fox sighed as the acrimonious recollection of his father's funeral consumed his rancorous thoughts. The sight of Theresa being subjected to playing the grieving widow had sickened him. He despised his grandfather for forcing him to appear as if he cared that his father was dead. Truth be told, he was glad that Julian had died in the manner in which he did. In his opinion, for his treatment of Theresa, he deserved what he got. Fox struggled to get up when he heard the knob to his door being turned slowly. "Go away!" he screamed at whoever was planning on interrupting his drunken stupor.
His bloodshot eyes raised enough to meet the reddened eyes of his aunt. "I know you miss your father," she began as she indicated the fifty-something empty bottles of hard liquor scattered throughout her only nephew's bedroom. "But I thought that you should know that tomorrow is the reading of your father's will."
"And?" Fox slurred as he took another swig from the bottle.
"Father wants you to be sober when everyone gets here." She shook her head as Fox merely shrugged his shoulders and downed the remaining liquid from his bottle. "Besides you really shouldn't be handling your grief this way. It's unhealthy."
"Why should I care about what other people think of me? And why in hell should you care if I drink myself to death?"
"Look," she said a little more annoyed. "Ivy, Alistair, Theresa, Ethan, Gwen, and even Rebecca will all be here tomorrow morning for the reading of the will. And I expect you to be there as well!" she screamed turning on her heel and exiting the room.
Theresa was coming to the mansion tomorrow. She had left and moved back in with her mother over two weeks ago. They both thought it best if she departed the mansion. The temptation would have been too great if she remained in the room down the hall. And nobody questioned her actions. They all just assumed that her family needed her back home. Either that, or they just didn't care.
Fox reeled as he noticed the precarious condition of his bedroom. Dirty clothes lined the floor, a small path to his bed detectable in the mess. Half-empty bottles of tequila and whiskey covered his desk while half-eaten food haphazardly occupied the space beneath his bed. It was utterly disgusting. If Theresa saw this, she would insist upon moving back in to take care of him. And he couldn't, no he wouldn't, allow her to put her life on the line for him. To her, he had to present a portrait that everything was peachy-keen, even if he had to fake it.