"Against Brett? Anderson?" she'd asked, assuming the obvious targets—
"No." His laugh had been soft. Dark. Almost fond. "Kyle."
"Kyle?" She'd sat straight up in bed, pulse jumping. "But you don't have as much on him. The accident is—"
"I'm not the one bringing it to light."
She'd gone still.
"Renee's dropping the piece mid-game day. A question about his death—on Darius O'Neil. The kid Kyle hit with his car while the six sat in the back, drunk and laughing."
"And then?"
"That's it. That's only the opening play, Maya. That's just getting the ball rolling. Just to pour colors on the invisible walking crimes of the Legacies. What happens next…"
He'd let the sentence hang.
And Maya had understood.
Because she had been moving pieces of her own.
The Seven had taken Phei once.
Kidnapped him. Beaten him. Tried to kill him.
He'd walked out anyway—refused to bend, returned sharper, deadlier.
And then—impossibly—he had told her.
