I asked him at breakfast.
The morning light streamed through the tall windows of the private dining room, painting everything in shades of gold. Brian sat across from me, coffee untouched, reviewing security reports from Marcus. He looked tired—more tired than I'd ever seen him, shadows carved beneath his eyes like bruises.
I should have waited. Should have found a gentler moment, a softer approach. But the dead woman's message had been burning in my mind all night, and I couldn't carry it anymore.
"Who was the first one?"
Brian's hand stopped mid-reach for his cup.
The room went very still. Not the stillness of surprise—the stillness of something ancient recognizing a threat. His eyes lifted to mine, and for a moment I saw something behind them. Something vast and dark and terrified.
