Not a serpent attacking. Not a flower being crushed. The serpent iscradlingthe dahlia. Whispering to it. The two of them intertwined in something that looks almost like intimacy.
She drew us before she knew there was anusto draw.
That's what I can't stop thinking about. That's what keeps me awake at night, turning possibilities over in my mind. She's not just prey. She's not just a witness to be managed or a loose end to be tied.
She's something else. Something I haven't encountered before.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in."
Josiah enters, his expression the careful neutral that means he's about to say something I won't like. He's still dressed for the office—charcoal suit, burgundy tie—though it's nearly midnight. My brother doesn't believe in rest when there's work to be done.
"You're still awake," he says.
"So are you."
"I've been going through the quarterly reports. The Hartwell acquisition is behind schedule. Morrison wants a meeting to discuss the delays."
"Schedule it for next week."
Josiah doesn't move. He stands in the doorway, watching me with those sharp eyes that see too much.
"You called her," he says.
It's not a question. I don't bother asking how he knows—Josiah makes it his business to know everything that happens in this family.
"I did."
"And?"
"And nothing. A brief conversation. A professional follow-up about potential work."
"Gabriel." He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "I've known you for thirty-three years. I know when you're playing games."
"I'm always playing games. So are you."
"Not like this." He moves to the chair across from my desk and sits, uninvited. "This woman—this florist—she's becoming a distraction."
"She's not a distraction."
"She witnessed you kill a man. That makes her a problem by definition."
I set the sketch aside, face down, though I'm certain he's already seen it. "She hasn't gone to the police. She won't."
"You can't know that."
"I know her."
Josiah's jaw tightens. "You've known her for less than two weeks. You've had one conversation with her that wasn't observed through a security feed. You don'tknowher—you're obsessed with her. There's a difference."
The word lands like a slap. Obsessed. It's not inaccurate, but hearing it from his mouth makes it sound like a weakness. A flaw to be corrected.
"I'm interested," I say carefully. "That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?" Josiah leans forward, elbows on his knees. "When was the last time you slept more than three hours? When was the last time you focused on Brotherhood business for more than an hour without checking surveillance reports? When was the last time you went a single day without thinking about her?"
I don't answer. We both know what the answer would be.
