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I called Peter that night. How do I not feel guilty because of that?
“I know what Andrew did to you that night,” Henry says, his tone dropping to a dangerous register that I've never heard from him before. Realizing that I am discovering this new side of my brother is like watching a play unfold, act by act. I'll see his love, but I'll also witness his dark side.“Theo told me everything when we took over the investigation from Daniel and Harper.”
Who has the power to take over an investigation from the CIA? My brother does.
So much is a mystery.
"You were right to call Peter that night. I would have killed Andrew. Back then, I didn’t have the connections I have now; Oliver Sinclair would have slowly destroyed us all for killing his son. He was... Oliver was a very dangerous man,” Henry says as he steps in front of me.“Don’t you see, Poppy? You made the right decision. You ran. That was brave of you. You called for help. You chose the brother who thinks before he acts. I would have just reacted. I was young and foolish. Oliver would have killed us all.”
“I could have called the police,” I whisper.
“Oliver had them in his pocket. We’d all be dead,” he replies.
I hang my head. He’s right. It doesn’t wash away my guilt, though. It’s more like pouring sanitizer on my hands. They still feel sticky; I need to wash them thoroughly. However, the sanitizer killed some of the thoughts.
“Poppy! Poppy!” Harper shouts.
Henry and I turn as Harper comes barreling through. Her feet stop when she reaches the driveway, and her blue eyes scan the plot of land that used to have a beautiful house on it.“Jesus,” I read her lips mutter. She stumbles closer to us, her head shaking.
“I’m ok,” I tell her. I reach my hand out as she comes to us, but instead of taking it, she balls her fist and slams it into Henry’s jaw.
“Harper!”
I knew that was coming.I can’t blame her. I imagine one of her punches is from me.
“You fucking prick.”
She swings again; Henry lets it happen. I try to wrangle her, but it’s like herding a wild cat into a cold bath.
“Harper, stop. He apologized.”
“Fuck apologies. I want blood and tears; I want his head on a spit.”
“Well, your dramatics haven't dulled with age,” Henry jabs.
“Harper, please.” I grasp her bicep.Girlfriend’s got muscle!
My plea does it. She stills. Her fist turns to a furious finger jab. A finger can be more deadly than a bullet, more threatening than the discovery of the nuclear bomb. It’s a promise, a whispered silent vow of vengeance.
One single finger.
The freckles on Henry's face, like patches of camouflage, are barely visible beneath the flush of his reddened skin. Harper's frustration boils over, her voice dripping with a venomous edge. "Poppy might forgive you, but I won't," she hisses, her words cutting through the air like a sharpened blade.
“I’m happy you didn’t forget how to throw a punch, Harper,” Henry replies. For a moment, he appears unfazed by the onslaught, a hint of appreciation flickering in his eyes.
Henry was the one who taught Harper and me how to punch. It was the summer when we were fourteen and just about to enter high school. During school orientation, a boy smacked both Harper's and I's asses. Harper and I giggled at the time. We were naive and thought the attention from a guy was like God whispering in our ears.
Henry, well, he didn't laugh. That boy had a black eye during the first week of school and never looked at Harper or me again.
When we got home, Henry took Harper and me to the backyard. He duck-taped my pillow to the tree and showed us how to punch.I slept on rolled-up towels until Peter ordered me a new pillow, which arrived a whole week later. Peter didn't even punish Henry for stealing my pillow because he was happy with the lesson.
Gosh, it's been years since I thought about that.
"Thank you," Henry tells Harper, his voice steady as he rubs his jaw, where redness hints at a recent clash.
Harper's confusion materializes in a blink, and her eyes widen in disbelief. "What?" she stammers, caught off guard. "Thank you." she hisses, taken aback.
Yeah, why did he say that?
