He's quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts—or perhaps choosing his words carefully, selecting which truths to share and which to keep hidden.
"Twenty-five years ago, there was a man in our outer circle. Not a full member, but connected enough to enjoy certain protections. He was a teacher at St. Augustine's College."
My blood runs cold. St. Augustine's. The school where I spent four years of my adolescence. The school where I learned what I was capable of.
"His name was Dwayne Thomas."
The name hits me like a fist to the chest.
Dwayne Thomas. The man who made my life hell for two years. The man who cornered me in empty classrooms, who humiliated me in front of other students, who used his power to isolate and torment me until I didn't recognize myself anymore.
The first man I ever killed.
"I see you recognize the name." Bryan's voice is gentle now, almost pitying. "I thought you might."
"He was—" I stop, my throat tight. "He was handled. Twenty-five years ago. The Brotherhood—"
"The Brotherhood didn't handle Dwayne Thomas." Bryan shakes his head slowly. "You did. Your father covered it up afterward, made the body disappear, ensured that no investigation would ever trace back to you. But the kill was yours. Your first, if I'm not mistaken."
I say nothing. I can't speak. The memories are flooding back—the bathroom, the fluorescent lights, Dwayne's face turning purple as my hands squeezed tighter and tighter. The way his body went limp. The silence afterward, broken only by my own ragged breathing.
I was sixteen years old.
"What does this have to do with Linda Marsh?"
"Linda was Dwayne's girlfriend." Bryan delivers the words like a surgeon delivering a diagnosis. "They'd been together for about a year when she got pregnant. She didn'tknow what he really was—not at first. He hid it well, the way predators often do. Charming on the surface, monstrous underneath."
"But she found out."
"She found out. I don't know exactly how—perhaps she discovered evidence, perhaps one of his victims reached out to her. What I do know is that she tried to leave him, and he didn't take it well."
"He hurt her?"
"He terrorized her. Stalked her, threatened her, made it clear that she and the baby belonged to him and always would." Bryan's expression darkens. "The Brotherhood was aware, of course. Dwayne was becoming a liability—drawing attention, making mistakes. There was discussion about how to handle him."
"But before you could act, I did."
"Yes." Bryan meets my eyes. "You killed him before we could make a decision. And frankly, Gabriel, you did us a favor. Dwayne Thomas was a problem that needed solving. You solved it."
I should feel vindicated. I've carried that kill with me for twenty years, not with guilt but with the quiet satisfaction of knowing I eliminated a threat. My father praised me for it. The Brotherhood welcomed me because of it.
But now there's a new dimension. A complication I never anticipated.
"The baby," I say slowly. "Linda's baby. What happened to it?"
"Linda ran. Changed her name, covered her tracks, disappeared with the child. The Brotherhood let her go—she wasnobody, the baby was nobody, and Dwayne was dead. There was no reason to pursue her."
"And the child?"
Bryan is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured.
"The child would be twenty-five now. A young woman, if my math is correct." He pauses. "About the same age as your florist."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
Poppy. Poppy Rivers. Poppy, whose mother changed her name and ran when Poppy was two. Poppy, whose birth certificate lists her father as unknown. Poppy, who draws serpents whispering to flowers and keeps dying dahlias, looked at me across a corpse and didn't scream.
Poppy is Dwayne Thomas's daughter.
