Page 113 of Concealed in Death

“Who handled the finances at The Sanctuary—before you got the training?”

Philadelphia made a short, impatient sound. “Again, I don’t understand these questions. Nash did, for the most part. We were raised in a very traditional home. Our father earned the living, handled the money, the bills. Our mother kept the house. So we initially approached The Sanctuary with that dynamic. It was what we knew. But it became apparent to both of us that Nash simply wasn’t gifted with a real head for business. I was. We also believe in using our gifts, so I got further training. It was too late to save The Sanctuary, but we accept that was the plan.”

“Whose plan?”

“The higher power. We learned, we lost, we were given another chance, and we’ve succeeded.”

“Handy. So you handle the finances now.”

“For HPCCY, yes, along with our accountant.”

“You’d each handle your own personal finances?”

“Of course. Lieutenant—”

“Just getting a picture,” Eve interrupted. “What about your other brother?”

“Monty? Monty died.”

“In Africa. Fifteen years ago last month. I meant before he died. What was his function? What were his duties, responsibilities? His share?”

“He... assisted wherever he could. He enjoyed helping with meals, doing small repairs. He helped Brodie now and then.”

“You’re talking about scut work.”

Philadelphia’s eyebrows drew together to form that deep crease between them. “I don’t know what that means.”

“No real responsibilities, no real job. Just picking up lower-level chores.”

“Monty wasn’t trained to—”

“Why not? Why didn’t he get the training to be a partner, like you and your older brother?”

“I don’t understand why that matters? Our personal lives—”

“Are my business now.” Eve snapped it out so Philadelphia jerked in her chair. “Twelve girls are dead. It doesn’t matter if you understand the question. Answer it.”

“Come on, Dallas.” Playing her good cop role, Peabody soothed her way in. “We need to know,” she said to Philadelphia, “whatever we can know, so we can try to piece everything together. For the girls,” she added, nudging some of the pictures just a little closer to Philadelphia.

“I want to help, it’s just that... it’s painful to talk about Monty. He was the baby.” She sighed out the stiffness. “The youngest of us, and I suppose we all indulged him a little. More when our mother died.”

“Committed suicide.”

“Yes. It’s painful now, it was only more painful then for all of us. She simply wasn’t well, in her mind, in her spirit. She lost her faith, and took her life.”

“That’s a terrible thing for a family to go through,” Peabody said, gentle, gentle. “Even more, I think, for a family of faith. Your mother lost her faith.”

“I feel she lost her will to hold to that faith. She was ill, in her mind, in her heart.”

“Your father took a hard line on that,” Eve put in.

The flush returned, more temper than embarrassment this time, Eve thought. “This was, and is, a very personal tragedy. If he took a hard line, as you say, it was his grief, his great disappointment. My father’s faith is absolute.”

“And your mother’s wasn’t.”

“She was unwell.”

“She became unwell, or began treatment, shortly after giving birth to your youngest brother.”

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