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He’s observing me the same intense way I’m regarding him. It’s uncanny how alike we look.

We must have unique features, though, we aren’t clones. For starters, he has no piercings on his face. And when he pushes down the hood of his sweater, a green bandana is wrapped around his forehead and a thick lock of hair falls on top of it. Light brown strands like mine, but wavy and short. He has amole on his neck and no taste in clothes whatsoever—unless trashy style is in vogue.

I keep my expression blank while a sense of irritation starts burning inside of me.

How the fuck didn’t I notice him getting in? Was he already inside the house when I arrived? He’s holding Annie, my Glock 40, as he pushes against the wall and takes a couple of steps toward me, gun down by his side. Same height, but he seems brawnier than me, can’t tell with all those layers of cheap clothes on him.

I need to tell Rami about these differences, so that Serena can tell us apart next time and stop my bio bro from breaking and entering into my house. I should call him right now, but that’s exactly what he wants me to do. He let me see his face on purpose. It’s a way to show me hisgoodfaith. Or maybe a trick to gain my trust before pouncing.

Mm. My interest is piqued. I want to see where this is going.

“What makes you think you can just invade my space?”

“Isn’t that what family members do, Uriel?” His voice is gruff and deep, with a little rasp to it.

“Are we family? A psychopath and a sociopath, father would be so proud,” I state sarcastically.

“Ha. He didn’t even recognize me when I slit his throat,” he confesses to the killing nonchalantly. I was told father was killed in prison by another inmate. Did he sneak inside just to murder him? Or end up inside on purpose? I had my own plan for how to end father’s miserable life; he beat me to it.

I lower my gun, still remaining alert. “Uncle, was his death an accident?” A car accident four months before father. I never thought about the possibility of my biological brother being the perpetuator.

He takes his time to answer, looking around. “I ran him over with a truck. Held him under the heavy tires for a few extra seconds as his bones cracked. Old sins have long shadows, you know?”

“Do you expect a thank you? You took my revenge away from me,” I hiss, remembering how unsatisfied and enraged I felt when I’d discovered both men were dead.

“You started killing late…at eighteen.” He makes a taunting whistling sound. “I started way younger. Was mostly forced to do it, but I enjoyed it. I don’t prolong their end, though…unlike you.”

“You did some deep research.” I sniff. “Do you also happen to know the color of my damn underwear?”

He smirks, starting to walk around the room, glancing around. “No, because you don’t wear any.”

Deep research it is.

“We both didn’t when we were kids; hated it,” he adds. I don’t remember not wearing it when I was a kid. I don’t now because it makes me feel itchy and restrained.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I’m not expecting a direct reply from a psychopath, but I can discern a few things from the way he avoids questions.

“Azrael. My name is Azrael.”

Azrael. “The Angel of Death.” Meg was always interested in religious narratives, that’s why she gave us, her foster kids, the seven names of the angels of wrath.

He nods. “Ezra, if you prefer. You all got angel names, I thought I should get one as well.”

“Why?” His candidness, the willingness to answer my questions must be part of a conniving plan. He can easily manipulate the conversation and seems to have a grandiose sense of self-worth. He’s also giving me his back while studying the room, as if he’s not afraid of me.

“I was experimented on as well. Longer than you guys. Don’t I deserve an angel name, too?”

A week before Linda and Meg came to rescue us, he was moved to another facility. They only discovered about…Ezra’s existence six months after I was released, when one of the men responsible for the experiment confessed it. But by the time Linda got there, they had already left once again with Ezra.

“I have a feeling you are not here to be part of the family.”

In his gaze, I can see the same deviousness that I find in my eyes every time I look in the mirror. “So that’s what you call it? Family.” He seems to ponder on the word for a moment. “I’m here mainly because we have an enemy in common.”

“Phoenix.”

“Father shot our mother dead; is that why you like guns?” he changes subject.

“No. Why do you like arrows? Do you have Robin Hood syndrome or something?”