"I heard things—rumors—whispers—"
"From who?"
"People. People who used to work there. People who kept in touch."
"Names."
He gave me names. I wrote them down, adding them to the wall, adding them to the web. The list was growing. The pattern was emerging.
But the most important information—the one I needed most—was still missing.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—I swear—I don't know—no one knows—"
"Someone knows."
"Maybe. But it's not me. Please—please believe me—"
I believed him.
But I killed him anyway.
The memory came without warning.
I was in the pink room. Gabriel was standing in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes the color of winter storms.
"There's something I need to tell you."
"What?"
"About my family. About my brother."
"You never mentioned a brother."
"I know. I didn't want to. He's... dangerous. More dangerous than me. More dangerous than anyone you've ever met."
"What's his name?"
"Nathan."
"Why does he have a different last name?"
"Because he chose it. Because he wanted to distance himself from the family business. Because he wanted to build his own empire."
"What kind of empire?"
"The same kind our father built. Trafficking. Conditioning. Control."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because if something happens to me—if I disappear—he'll come for you."
"Why?"
