The victim lay flat on his back on the sidewalk. A dark stain marred his throat and spread over the stone. One arm was outstretched toward the street as if beckoning for help that would never come. In that open palm lay a white object.

Arthur zoomed in and tried to identify it, finally discerning the details of its frilled petals and subtle hues. It was an orchid, but not any orchid. Arthur’s stomach knotted with recognition.

It was a Brassocattleya orchid.

Such orchids were common enough, used as corsage flowers because of their powerful scent and their durable beauty. His mother had raised that particular breed because she adored the scent.

Arthur remembered another detail.

Christian had always loved them, too.

His mind’s eye flashed to the poster, to the still life of Christian printed there, his brother’s smile frozen, his eyes so alive even in the photo.

As he stared at the orchid in the dead man’s palm, the sweet smell seemed to drift across the street to him, although that couldn’t be true. He was too far away, but even the imagined scent was enough to dredge up a long-buried memory.

Arthur sat on the stone bench in the corner of his mother’s greenhouse holding a pruning knife. The familiar scents of orchids and bark surrounded him, as the afternoon sunlight, trapped under all that glass, turned the winter outside into a steamy summer inside.

He stared at the long tables filled with exotic plants. Some of the orchids he’d known for years, watching them flower over and over again throughout his lonely childhood.

Since he was a little boy he had come here to watch his mother work with the orchids, crooning to them, misting them gently, stroking their leaves, giving them the love that she did not give to him. They were special and rare and beautiful — and he was not.

He’d had a secret dream that when he grew up he would do something so wonderful that she would look up from her pots and notice him.

But now that would never happen.

She had died two days ago, taking her own life in one of her fits of black melancholy. Today she had been planted in the earth like one of her beloved orchids.

He ran his thumb across the sharp knife.

He’d overheard the staff talking about the value of his mother’s orchid collection. She had spent a lifetime accumulating it — buying each plant from a funny little man dressed all in black with a bowler hat. He gathered them from botanical gardens around the world, from other collectors, and even from men who traveled into the distant rain forests and brought the specimens out in burlap sacks.

Now all her precious orchids would die or be sold.

A light winter rain began to patter on the glass roof and ran down the sides in streaks. Arthur laid the cold knife blade against the warm softness of his forearm.

This is how she did it…

Before he could act, the greenhouse door slammed open, and Arthur jumped.

The knife clattered to the tile floor.

Only one person dared to crash around the estate like that. Christian had come to the London house when both boys were fourteen. Christian’s parents had died in a car crash outside of San Francisco. Arthur’s father was second cousin to the boy’s father and took the teenager into their home. Though the two boys were related, it was only in blood — not in demeanor.

“Arty?” he called brashly. “I know you’re in here.”

Arthur stirred on the bench, and Christian spotted him, crossing over to join him. Christian’s brown hair was slicked flat from the rain, and his bright green eyes were puffy and rimmed in red. Unlike Arthur, Christian could let himself cry when he was hurt. It was an American trait. Something Arthur’s father and mother would never tolerate.

Reaching the bench, Christian pulled the dark lens cap off his camera. He carried the thing everywhere. He took pictures all day and spent half the night in a makeshift darkroom developing them. Arthur’s mother said that he had real talent, and she would not have said that if it weren’t true.

Christian planned to become a photojournalist. He wanted to travel to the world’s war zones, taking pictures — using his art to change the world. He’d even convinced Arthur that he could come along, too, as a journalist. They’d be a team. Arthur wasn’t sure that he had the talent for such a career, but he liked to be drawn into Christian’s whimsies. The other boy had a reserve of boundless optimism that Arthur often warmed himself against.

But today even that wasn’t enough.

Christian snapped a picture of the abandoned pruning knife on the tiles, then turned toward the rows of specimen tables. He headed to his favorite orchid: the Brassocattleya cross.

First, he took a close-up shot of the blossom, then he pinched off a dead leaf and felt its edges to see if it was moist, just as their mother used to.

“She’ll miss these flowers,” Christian commented.

Certainly more than me, Arthur thought dourly.

Christian plucked the flower, and Arthur gasped.

Mother would never have allowed that.

Christian dropped the flower on Arthur’s lap and picked up the pruning knife from the floor.

Arthur watched the blade. He imagined how it would feel if it cut into his wrists, how the blood would well out and drop onto the floor. His mother would know. She’d used a long knife from the kitchens to slit her wrists in the bath. When Arthur found her, the water was such a deep red that it looked as if the whole tub had been filled with blood.

Christian touched the inside of Arthur’s wrist. His fingers slid back and forth along the same spot where his mother had used the kitchen knife.

“Do you think it hurt much?” Christian asked, not shying from the harder questions. His fingers still rested on Arthur’s wrist.

Arthur shrugged, suddenly nervous — not at the subject matter but at the intimacy.

Christian moved his fingers aside, replacing his touch with that of the cold edge of the pruning knife.

Arthur stayed very still, hoping.

Christian took a deep breath, then sliced into Arthur’s wrist — but not too deep. It didn’t hurt as much as he had anticipated. No more than a sting really.

Blood welled out.

Both boys stared at the shiny scarlet line on Arthur’s white skin.

“She left me, too,” Christian said and put the flower into Arthur’s hand.

Arthur clenched his fist, crushing the orchid, and more blood flowed out of his wound. “I know.”

“My turn now.” Christian drew the bloody blade across his own wrist.

“Why?” Arthur asked, surprised.

Christian turned his arm over and dropped his wounded wrist on top of Arthur’s. Their warm commingled blood ran down their arms and dripped onto the clean-swept floor.

With his other arm, Christian took several snapshots: of the crimson drops on the white stone tile, of the bloody flower crumpled on the bench. Last, Christian angled the camera up to take a picture of the two of them together, their arms linked.

“I will never leave you,” Christian whispered to him. “We’re blood brothers, now and forever.”

For the first time since Arthur had found his mother in the crimson water — her stained blond hair floating on the surface, her head tilted back to stare at the plaster ceiling — he broke down and wept.

Arthur felt a hand shove him from behind, stumbling him back to the present.

“Get off my porch!”

He turned to discover a middle-aged woman standing there — about the same age his mother would have been if she’d lived. She scolded him and herded him off her home’s stoop, her flannel nightgown billowing in the night breeze.