Chapter 6 - Gabriel
The silence after I end the call is exquisite.
I set the phone down on my desk and lean back in my chair, savoring the echo of her voice. That broken whisper. What do you want? As if she didn't already know. As if she hadn't felt the answer in every moment since our eyes met across that ballroom.
She's afraid. That's good. Fear is useful—it keeps prey alert, keeps them thinking about you, keeps them from getting comfortable enough to make stupid decisions like going to the police.
But fear isn't what I want from her. Not ultimately.
I want what I saw in her eyes when she looked at me through that doorway. That flash of recognition. That moment when she saw the monster and didn't look away.
I want her to stop running from it.
My study is dark except for the lamp on my desk, a pool of warm light in the shadows.
The estate is quiet at this hour—staff dismissed, brothers elsewhere, nothing but the old house settling around me.
I should be tired. I haven't slept properly since the gala, my mind too full of her to quiet down.
Instead, I feel alive. More alive than I've felt in years.
I pull out the sketch again—the serpent and the dahlia, worn soft from handling—and smooth it flat on my desk. Her lines are confident, assured. She drew this without hesitation, her hand moving from some place deeper than conscious thought.
She felt me watching her. And this is what her subconscious produced.
Not a serpent attacking. Not a flower being crushed. The serpent is cradling the dahlia. Whispering to it. The two of them intertwined in something that looks almost like intimacy.
She drew us before she knew there was an us to 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't know her—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.
"This isn't like you," Josiah continues. "You're methodical. Controlled. You don't let anything distract you from what matters. But ever since that gala, you've been different. Distracted. Reckless, even."
"Careful," I say quietly. "Choose your next words very carefully."
A long silence. Josiah holds my gaze, and I see the calculation happening behind his eyes. He's weighing risks, measuring how far he can push before I push back.
"I'm worried about you," he says finally. "That's all. I'm your brother, and I'm worried."
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. Josiah is many things—pragmatic, calculating, occasionally ruthless—but he's not my enemy. He's trying to protect me, in his own limited way.
He just doesn't understand.
"Your worry is noted," I say. "And unnecessary. I have the situation under control."
"Do you?" He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folder, setting it on my desk. "Because I've been doing some digging into your florist, and there are things that don't add up."
I look at the folder but don't touch it. "I've already had her investigated. I know everything there is to know about Poppy Rivers."
"Then you know about her mother's history."
Something in his tone makes me pause. "Linda Rivers. Single mother, worked multiple jobs, raised her daughter alone. What about her?"
"Her name wasn't always Linda Rivers." Josiah opens the folder, spreads papers across my desk. "She was born Linda Marsh. Changed her name legally when Poppy was two years old. Right after that, they started moving. Four different cities in six years before they finally settled."
I look at the documents. Birth certificates, name change filings, rental agreements from various addresses. A paper trail that Josiah has assembled with his usual thoroughness.
"People change their names for many reasons," I say.
"They do. But most people who change their names don't spend the next twenty-five years acting like they're being hunted.
" Josiah taps one of the papers. "I tracked down a former neighbor from one of their early addresses.
She remembered Linda well—said she was paranoid, secretive, wouldn't let Poppy play with other children.
Kept the curtains drawn all the time. Jumped at every knock on the door. "
"An abusive relationship, perhaps. A bad divorce. It's not uncommon for women to flee that way."
"That's what I thought. Except there's no record of Linda Marsh ever being married. No record of a serious relationship at all, in fact." He pulls out another document. "Poppy's birth certificate lists the father as unknown. No name. No information. Nothing."
I study the birth certificate. The space for the father's name is blank—not redacted, not sealed by court order, simply empty. As if the man never existed at all.
"So she had a child out of wedlock and didn't want to name the father. Again, not unusual."
"No. But combined with the name change, the constant moving, the paranoia—it paints a picture." Josiah leans back in his chair. "Linda Rivers is hiding from something. Or someone. She has been for her daughter's entire life."
I turn this over in my mind. It's interesting information, but I don't see what Josiah expects me to do with it. "Whatever Linda Rivers is running from, it has nothing to do with me."
"Maybe not. But her daughter just witnessed you commit murder. And if Linda is the type to run from trouble, what do you think she'll tell Poppy to do?"
"Poppy isn't going to run."
"How can you be so sure?"
Because I've seen inside her apartment. Because I've watched her sleep. Because I've read her sketchbook and seen the darkness she tries to hide, the part of her that's drawn to shadows and serpents and things that whisper in the night.
Because she kept the dahlia.
"I just am," I say.
Josiah studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs and gathers the papers back into the folder.
"There's something else," he says. "Something I couldn't find."
"What do you mean?"
"Gaps. Holes in the timeline that don't make sense.
" He sets the folder on my desk, closed now.
"Linda Marsh existed until Poppy was two.
Then she became Linda Rivers and started running.
But the two years before that—before the name change—there's almost nothing.
A few utility bills. A lease on an apartment in a town I've never heard of.
And then nothing until Poppy's birth certificate. "
"So she kept a low profile. Some people do."
"Some people do. But most people leave more traces than this. It's like she appeared out of nowhere, had a baby, and then spent the rest of her life trying to disappear again."
I consider this. Josiah is right that it's unusual—most people, even those trying to hide, leave more of a paper trail. Credit cards, medical records, employment history. The absence of these things suggests either extreme poverty or deliberate erasure.
Or someone helping her disappear.
"What are you suggesting?" I ask.
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm presenting facts.
" Josiah stands, straightening his jacket.
"This woman—Poppy Rivers—comes from a family with secrets.
Her mother has been running from something for twenty-five years, and whatever that something is, it scared her badly enough to change her entire identity.
Now her daughter has stumbled into your life, witnessed something she shouldn't have, and you're—" He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"You're more invested in her than I've ever seen you invested in anything. "
"And you think that's a problem."