The dinning room was thick with silence. Eric, who had been sitting in a state of controlled fury, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension.
"You just can't help yourself, can you, Philip?" he asked, his gaze fixed on his brother. "You can't stop your mouth from bringing up that accident again and again, can you?"
Philip just looked at him, a cool, unbothered expression on his face. Eric reached into his inner coat pocket and brought out a single, folded piece of paper in an envelope. He brought out the folded piece of paper. It was old, the creases worn, the ink slightly faded. He placed it in the middle of the table.
"This," Eric said, his voice now a low, dangerous rumble, "is the written confession of the gardener who witnessed everything that happened that day. He was trimming the hedges by the west wall of the stables. He was the one who even went to alert the stable hands after he saw you fall."
