Brielle’s POV
The wind stilled around us. The woods had never felt this silent. Not even the birds dared to speak. My eyes locked on the man standing a few feet away, and everything inside me turned to ice. His face was almost identical to the picture I’d held minutes ago—the one of my father, Charles. But that was impossible. He was supposed to be dead. Murdered. Buried. A part of my past I could only piece together through stories and photos.
My mother’s mouth trembled as she stepped in front of me, like her body instinctively moved to shield me. “You… you’re supposed to be dead,” she whispered, voice trembling with disbelief and fear.
The man tilted his head, watching her the way a lion watches a deer before it pounces. “That’s what you told her, isn’t it?” he said, his voice calm, a
