Palimpsest Hearts

The December fog clung to Mayfair's Georgian townhouses like a shroud as Lucian Sinclair's Bentley glided past Hyde Park. Inside, Finn Fitzgerald studied his reflection in the tinted windows - the Eton collar chafing his neck, the Sinclair crest embroidered on his blazer pocket like a brand. Four months since the chapel confrontation, and London still felt like an elaborate trap.

"Your 4:30 with the tailors, young sir." The driver's eyes met Finn's in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Sinclair insists on three fittings for the Christmas gala."

Finn crushed his science report on forensic toxicology. "Tell him I'd rather dissect roadkill in Bethnal Green."

The partition slid up with a disapproving hum. As Big Ben's chimes vibrated through the car, Finn's thumb worried the edge of Malcolm's last birthday card tucked in his calculus textbook. *"For my favorite lab partner - keep making explosions!"* The ink had bled through time and Alpine snowmelt.

---

Mayfair House Library - 7:03 PM

Lucian's wheelchair cast elongated shadows across leather-bound ledgers. On his desk, a magnifying glass illuminated discrepancies in Sinclair Holdings' 2015 brake fluid orders - three warehouses' worth unaccounted for. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung in time with his migraine.

Footsteps echoed in the marble hall. Finn appeared, still in uniform, mud caking his Oxfords from god-knows-where.

"Your headmaster called." Lucian didn't look up. "Apparently dissecting the chemistry master's Prius wasn't part of your extracurriculars."

Finn slung his satchel onto a Chippendale chair. "The hydrogen fuel cell design's flawed. Wanted proof."

"Through grand theft auto?"

"Through empirical research." The teen's grin faded as he noticed the documents. "Still playing detective?"

Lucian snapped the ledger shut. "Playing guardian." He nudged a dossier across the desk - surveillance photos of Finn's late-night escapades through Camden's underworld. "Care to explain your new friendship with East End mechanics?"

Finn's jaw tightened. "You track my phone?"

"I track threats. That Volvo you've been modifying? Its previous owner floated in the Thames last Tuesday with his fingers missing."

The boy palmed Malcolm's old Zippo, the flame trembling. "You think they're connected to...?"

"Everything's connected." Lucian wheeled to the hidden wall safe. Biometric locks whirred open, revealing Malcolm's autopsy photos. "Your brother's Range Rover had traces of synthetic lubricant used in our factories. The same substance found in last month's Tube derailment."

Finn's finger traced the chemical formula. "You're saying Sinclair Industries..."

"Is compromised. As am I." Lucian produced a Swiss bank statement showing twelve transfers to an unnamed account. "These began six months before Malcolm's accident."

The fire spat shadows across Tudor panelling. Somewhere, a pipe burst in the east wing, its drip syncopating with Finn's heartbeat. "You knew. All this time, you knew someone in your company killed him."

Lucian's signet ring clicked against the wheelchair. "I knew loving him made me blind. Knew grief made you reckless." He pushed a key towards Finn. "Garage B holds Malcolm's car. Decide by dawn whether truth matters more than survival."

---

Garage B - 3:17 AM

The Range Rover's carcass loomed under forensic tarps. Finn's flashlight beam caught the slashed brake line - surgical precision, corporate steel meeting Alpine ice. In the glove compartment, a melted CD of Oasis' *"(What's the Story) Morning Glory?"* fused with the dashboard.

"Malcolm's driving soundtrack," came Lucian's voice from the shadows. "He played it looping from Zurich to St. Moritz."

Finn's wrench clanged against the engine block. "Why show me this now?"

"Because tonight, thirteen executives are boarding a jet to Dubai. Because tomorrow, the evidence disappears." Lucian's gloves gripped the wheelchair. "And because you've replicated the brake failure in that Volvo of yours, haven't you?"

The admission hung between them, oil-slick and volatile. Finn kicked a tire. "Wanted to feel it. The moment he..." His voice cracked. "Did he text you? Before the crash?"

Lucian's phone illuminated a fragmented message: "Tell Luce the Range Rover's—"

"Brakes," Finn finished. "All these years...you thought completing his sentence would absolve you?"

"No." Lucian's hand hovered over the teen's shoulder. "I thought protecting his brother might."

Dawn bled through garage windows, gilding the wreckage. Somewhere beyond Mayfair's walls, the Thames carried secrets to sea. Finn pressed Malcolm's Zippo into Lucian's palm. "We burn it together."

---

Epiphany Morning - 8:00 AM

The fire consumed the Range Rover in Grecian proportions, black smoke coiling over Chelsea's rooftops. Finn watched Lucian's profile, orange light softening the man's marble features. For the first time, he didn't see Malcolm's ghost in those eyes - saw instead the cracks where something alive might grow.

"Your chemistry master called," Lucian said. "He's agreed to supervise your fuel cell project. Under one condition."

Finn's laugh startled a nearby raven. "No more carjackings?"

"No more borrowing my Aston Martin for 'experiments'." A rare smile. "Shall we discuss your Cambridge application? Or finally address why you stole my copy of Wuthering Heights?"

As firefighters arrived (discreetly pre-paid), Finn pocketed a charred brake line fragment. Some truths, he realized, weren't in the burning - but in choosing what rose from the ashes.