Chapter 24 - Gabriel
Bryan Vanderwal's estate sits at the end of a private road, hidden behind walls of old-growth oak and iron gates that have guarded secrets for three generations.
I haven't been here since my father's funeral, when Bryan stood beside the grave with dry eyes and a face carved from stone, mourning a man he'd called brother for forty years.
That was five years ago. A lifetime, in some ways. Nothing at all, in others.
The gates open as I approach—Bryan knows I'm coming, has known since Hutton made the call yesterday.
He's had time to prepare, to decide what he'll tell me and what he'll keep hidden.
Men like Bryan always have layers of truth, each one revealing just enough to satisfy while concealing what really matters.
I know this because I'm the same way.
The house emerges from the trees like something out of another century—Georgian architecture, ivy-covered walls, windows that have watched generations of Vanderwal men conduct their business in shadows.
It's smaller than my estate but older, steeped in a history that predates the Brotherhood itself.
Bryan is waiting on the front steps. He's aged since I last saw him—his hair has gone fully white, his frame more stooped, his hands gnarled with arthritis—but his eyes are the same. Sharp. Calculating. The eyes of a man who's survived seven decades in a world that devours the weak.
"Gabriel." He extends a hand as I climb the steps. His grip is firmer than I expected. "It's been too long."
"Bryan. Thank you for seeing me."
"As if I had a choice." A thin smile. "When an Ambrose requests an audience, one doesn't refuse. Your father taught me that."
He leads me inside, through halls lined with portraits of dead men, and into a study that smells of leather and old smoke. A fire burns in the hearth despite the mild weather—Bryan has always run cold, his blood thinning with age.
"Drink?" He gestures toward a crystal decanter on the sideboard.
"No. Thank you."
"Straight to business, then." He settles into a chair by the fire, gesturing for me to take the one opposite. "Hutton said you have questions about old records. Things that were buried before you were born."
"Before I was born, but not before I was aware." I sit, forcing myself to project a calm I don't feel. "I need to know about Linda Marsh."
Something flickers in Bryan's eyes—recognition, quickly suppressed. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time."
"But you do recognize it."
"I recognize a great many names, Gabriel. I'm old. I've been Brotherhood for over fifty years. Names accumulate."
"This one is connected to records that were deliberately erased. Professional erasure, the kind that requires significant resources." I hold his gaze. "Brotherhood resources."
Bryan is silent for a long moment, the fire crackling between us. I can see him calculating, weighing options, deciding how much to reveal.
"Why does this matter to you?" he asks finally. "Linda Marsh disappeared twenty-five years ago. She's ancient history."
"She has a daughter."
"Ah." Bryan's expression shifts—understanding dawning, along with something else. Wariness. "The florist. I've heard rumors."
"She's more than a florist."
"Clearly." He steeples his fingers, studying me over the tips. "You've taken her to your bed. Moved her into your home. Made her a fixture in your life, from what I understand. And now you're asking questions about her mother's past."
"I'm asking because someone else is asking. Someone who means to use whatever he finds against me."
"Zachary Mercer."
The name lands between us like a stone in still water. Bryan's face remains neutral, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes.
"You know about Zach's interest in this?"
"I know Zachary has been circling for months, looking for weaknesses to exploit. I know he's focused on your woman, though I didn't know why until now." Bryan pauses. "Linda Marsh. That's what he's found. That's the thread he's pulling."
"Then you know what's at the other end of that thread. I need you to tell me."
Bryan rises from his chair and moves to the window, his back to me. For a long moment, he says nothing, just stares out at the manicured grounds where gardeners move like ghosts among the hedges.
"Your father was my closest friend," he says finally. "We built the modern Brotherhood together, he and I. We shared secrets that would destroy lesser men. I loved him like a brother, and I've tried to honor his memory by protecting what he built."
"I'm not asking you to dishonor anything. I'm asking you to help me protect it."
"Are you?" He turns to face me. "Or are you asking me to help you protect a woman who may be more dangerous to the Brotherhood than Zachary Mercer ever could be?"
The words hit harder than they should. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that some secrets are buried for good reason, Gabriel.
Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again.
" He moves back to his chair but doesn't sit, standing behind it with his hands gripping the leather.
"If I tell you what you want to know, it will change things.
It will change you. Are you prepared for that? "
"I'm prepared for the truth."
"No one is ever prepared for the truth. They only think they are." But he sighs, a sound of surrender, and lowers himself back into the chair. "Very well. You want to know about Linda Marsh. I'll tell you what I know."
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't know 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 was nobody, 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.
I killed her father before she was born.
The room seems to tilt around me. I grip the arms of my chair, fighting for equilibrium, for the control that's always come so easily.
"Gabriel." Bryan's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "I can see this is... unexpected."
"Unexpected." I laugh, and the sound is harsh, almost unhinged. "That's one word for it."
"I tried to warn you. Some truths change everything."
"You could have told me years ago. You could have—"