"Don't what? Point out that you're making a mistake? That you're putting yourself in danger for—what? Revenge that won't bring him back?"
"You don't understand," she says, voice tight with suppressed emotion.
"Then explain it to me," I challenge, taking another drag. "Make me understand why you'd throw your life away like this."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wait, letting the silence stretch and settle between us. I learned a long time ago that people will fill silence if you let them. That sometimes the best way to get someone to talk is to shut up and give them space to do it.
"Henry was my twin," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "My other half. We did everything together. Learned to walk on the same day. Said our first words at the same time. Mom used to joke that we had our own language, that we could communicate without speaking. And it was true. I always knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. And when he died—"Her voice cracks. "It was like someone cut me in half. Like they took part of my soul."
I nod, not interrupting, even though the memory of finding Henry's body is burned into my brain like a brand. Even though I can still see him lying there in that alley, throat cut, discarded like trash. Even though two years haven't been nearly enough time to process that loss.
"He was good," she continues, voice getting quieter, more fragile. "Better than both of us in every way. Kinder. Gentler. He saw the best in people even when they didn't deserve it. When Mom started working for the Raiders, Henry thought it was cool. Thought we'd be protected. Safe."
"What happened wasn't your fault," I say, because she needs to hear it even if she won't believe it. "Or Mom's. Or anyone's except the people who killed him."
"Marcus happened," she says, his name coming out like poison. "And the three Vipers who helped him. Henry was fifteen. Walking home from school, same route he always took. Wrong place, wrong time. Marcus was doing some kind of deal with them in that alley—drugs, I think. And Henry saw something he shouldn't have. Something that would've exposed Marcus, would've gotten him kicked out of the club if Xavier found out."
My stomach drops even though I know this story, lived through the aftermath of it. But hearing Talia tell it, hearing the pain in her voice, makes it fresh again. Raw.
"Marcus grabbed him," she continues, words coming faster now. "Dragged him into the alley. Beat him. Henry fought back—he was small but he was scrappy, you remember—but Marcus had help. Three Vipers. They held Henry down while Marcus?—"
Her voice breaks completely. She stops, swallows hard, visibly forces herself to continue through tears she won't let fall.
"They slit his throat. Left him in a dumpster like he was trash. Like he was nothing. It took two days for someone to find him. Two days of Mom and me and you searching everywhere, filing police reports that went nowhere, begging the Raiders to help look for him. And the whole time, Marcus knew. He knew where Henry was. He knew what he'd done. And he said nothing."
"I know," I say quietly, because I was there for all of it. Was the one who found Henry's body, actually. Was the one who had to identify him, had to tell Jackie and Talia that he was gone. "I know, T."
"Xavier found out eventually," she says, and there's bitter acid in her voice now. "About six months later. Someone talked. Xavier confronted Marcus. But Marcus was his brother. Blood. So Xavier gave him a warning. Told him to stay away from us. Told him there'd be consequences if he stepped out of line again."
"But there weren't," I finish quietly, understanding now why she's here, why she's doing this.
"No. There weren't. Marcus kept doing whatever he wanted. Kept hurting people. Kept getting away with it because he was Xavier's brother and that made him untouchable." She looks at me directly now, and her eyes are hard, cold, filled with a fury that's been burning for two years. "But that's not why I'm here. Marcus is dead now. I don't know how or when or who—just that he's finally gone. And I'm glad. But the three Vipers who helped him kill Henry? They're still here. Still walking around like they didn't murder a fifteen-year-old kid."
I process this carefully. Marcus is dead. That's news. But she doesn't know the details, and I'm not about to fill in those blanks. Not now. Not when she's on this path.
"So this is revenge," I observe, taking another drag of my cigarette.
"This is justice," she corrects firmly.
"There's a difference?"
"Yes," she insists. "Revenge is personal, selfish. Justice is making sure what happened to Henry never happens to anyone else. It's making sure the people who killed him pay for it."
I want to argue. Want to tell her that justice and revenge are just different words for the same thing. That what she's planning is going to get her killed and won't change anything that's already happened.
But I see it in her eyes—that same determination I've felt a thousand times. That same certainty that some things are worth dying for.
"What's the plan?" I ask instead, because if she's going to do this either way, I need to know what I'm dealing with.
She blinks, surprised. "You want to know?"
"If you're going to do this regardless of what I say, I'd rather know what I'm working with."
She studies me for a moment, deciding whether to trust me. Then: "The three Vipers who helped Marcus kill Henry—Killian's letting me get close to them. Thinks I'm one of them now, that I want revenge against the Raiders for not protectingHenry, for letting Marcus walk free for so long. He's been including me in operations, trusting me with information."
"And you're going to—what?"
"I'm going to kill them," she says simply. "All three of them. Make them pay for what they did to Henry. And if that starts a war between the Raiders and the Vipers, if that burns everything down—good. Maybe something better can grow from the ashes."