She trusts me. She said so herself.
But can I trust her?
The answer should be no. Trust is weakness. Trust is vulnerability. Trust is handing someone a knife and hoping they don't use it.
And yet.
And yet when I think about Poppy—her eyes, her voice, the way she looks at me like I'm something worth looking at—I find myself wanting to trust her. Wanting to believe that what's growing between us is real, is mutual, is something that can't be destroyed by whatever poison Zach plans to pour in her ear.
I pull out the sketch from my pocket. The serpent and the dahlia, worn soft from constant handling.
She drew this before she knew me. Before she had any reason to trust me.
Maybe that means something.
Or maybe it means nothing at all.
The afternoon passes in a haze of research and frustration. Hutton's team digs deeper into Linda's past, but the trail goes cold after a certain point—deliberately cold, professionally cold. Someone scrubbed her records. Someone with resources and connections.
Brotherhood resources. Brotherhood connections.
The realization settles into my gut like a stone.
Linda Marsh was connected to us somehow. To the Brotherhood. And whatever that connection was, it was significant enough to warrant a complete erasure of her identity.
What happened twenty-five years ago? What made a woman change her name, take her infant daughter, and run?
And why is Zach so interested in finding out?
I think about calling my father's old contacts, the men who would have been active in the Brotherhood when Linda disappeared. But most of them are dead now, or too old to remember, or too deep in their own secrets to share them.
There's one person who might know. One person who was there, who rose through the ranks at the same time my father did, who might have witnessed whatever happened to Linda Marsh.
Bryan Vanderwal. One of the oldest Brotherhood members still alive. Retired now, living in a sprawling estate an hour outside the city. My father's closest friend before his death.
I haven't spoken to Bryan in years. Haven't had reason to. But if anyone knows what secrets the Brotherhood was keeping twenty-five years ago, it's him.
I make a note to arrange a visit. Soon.
In the meantime, I have more immediate concerns.
I find Poppy in the library, curled up in one of the leather chairs with a book she's not really reading. I can tell by the way her eyes aren't moving, by the furrow between her brows, that her mind is elsewhere.
"You're worried," I say from the doorway.
She looks up, startled. "You move too quietly."
"Habit." I cross the room and stop in front of her chair. "What are you thinking about?"
"The questions. The ones you mentioned this morning." She closes the book, setting it aside. "You said someone was digging into my background. My family."
"I did."
"Why would anyone care about my background? I'm nobody. A florist. I don't have enemies, I don't have secrets, I don't have anything worth digging for."
You have me, I think.And that makes you worth everything.
"People connected to me have enemies," I say carefully. "It's possible someone is trying to find leverage. A way to get to me through you."
