CHAPTER TWO
RECLUSE

TARGET: KIERAN KELLER

INSTEAD OF GOING HOME to Foggy Bottom, Annika drives about thirty-five minutes up the I-66 then the VA-267 to reach Wolf Trap, Virginia: she arrived a little before ten p.m. at a property near Wolftrap Creek. It was a newly completed home, white-brick with dark wood accents, that clean-cut kind of prefab house you find exclusively in decent school districts.

Annika kept her car idle in the driveway for a minute, watching the house from the driver's seat. The porch lights were on. Annika packed her handbag, then unpacked it, then packed it once more—just to be sure. Then she turned off the car engine and stepped out into the crisp autumn air.

One knock on the door, then two. From somewhere within the house she heard barking, the sounds muffled but discordant: there were at least two different dogs inside. Annika inhaled sharply through her nose, lips already poised to smile when the front door finally swung open.

          "Anni," the subject of her midnight visit says, somehow imbuing those small two syllables with shock first, then surprise. Kieran Keller stood in the doorway, backlit by his yellow foyer lights, face handsome but tired, features easy to look at but rough to the touch. He had a permanent five o'clock shadow colouring his jawline scruffy, a once-straight nose now broken twice over, maybe thrice. He was dressed in a loose shirt and pyjama pants, shapeless clothes hiding the muscled body of a professional killer. A scarred body, too, not unlike her own. "What are you doing here?"

          "I'm headed out of town for work. I remembered you were in Virginia now, thought I'd drop by and say hi on my way. Is this a bad time?"

          "No," Kieran said. He usually wore glasses—generic style, black-frame, to this day Annika didn't know whether he actually needed them or not—but she supposed she'd just woken him up. Somewhere close, but still distant enough to stay out of sight: more barking. "Please, come in."

          "That Keats I hear?" Annika stepped inside. Kieran adopted dogs, typically aggressive, "violent" mutts, the ones that were an inevitable bite away from being put down; he named them after Romantic poets and with this renaming christened them into well-behaved, adoring pets. "How is he?"

          "He's good. Happy for the extra space out here." The house was laid out exactly as it looked online; foyer to hallway to living room to kitchen. Annika let Kieran lead her to the kitchen table, where she pulled out a chair and sat at the seat's edge, perching as if she were a bird about to take flight. "I got a few other rescues. Shelley, Blake."

          "What breed?" By the table was a large bay window, newly finished and freshly-painted. In the darkness outside, Annika caught flickers of movements, heard the metallic song of collars. No chains, with the tall fence she'd seen driving down this road. "Another Shepherd?"

          "No, both some kind of mutt. You want to say hi to Keats?"

          "Yes please."

Kieran gave a smile and disappeared back the way they'd entered, leaving Annika to look around the joint living, cooking and eating space. It was decorated nicely, perhaps too nicely; she wouldn't be surprised to learn Kieran kept the dressing decor from when he'd purchased the place. She couldn't judge—save for Elliott's small contributions, a framed photo on a nightstand, a sweater draped over the back of a chair—her own apartment was as bare as could be, like at any moment someone else could unlock the door, move in, and start living a life that had been waiting for them within those four walls.

The house was too big. Six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, all for Kieran and his three, maybe four dogs. Largeness for largeness' sake. Annika wondered if he was planning for a family, or just liked the breathing room after nearly a decade in New York City.

It didn't matter either way. He returned after a few minutes, and trailing after him was the dog of the hour: Keats, a beautiful German Shepherd with a black and brown coat, forest-green collar, and warm amber eyes. He bounded forward, curious, and it took a moment of sniffing, pawing, for him to recognise Annika. She moved swiftly from her seat to meet him, wrapping her arms around the dog with a smile she didn't have to fake. She felt his muscles beneath his fur, firm, strong, more than capable of working together to tear her apart. "Hey, boy. Miss me?"

          "You want a cup of tea?" Kieran asks. Annika nods, scratching Keats under his chin with a rare, genuine laugh. "I didn't think he'd remember you."

          "Ouch," Annika said, rising so Keats couldn't overwhelm her. He panted, pink tongue sticking out through sharp, pale teeth. "I'm basically his mom."

Kieran half-scoffed, half-snorted, turning away to fill the kettle in his pristine kitchen. Annika stepped over to the kitchen island, leaning against it with elbows, holding her head in her hands. "What've you been up to?"

          "Not much," Kieran said, yawning. He switched on the gas stove, fiddling with the knobs—click, click—before setting down the kettle. It was bright red and shiny, matching his coffee machine, toaster, stand-up mixer. "Dexter's been out of the country for the last few months. Usually he gives me something to do while he's gone, but... it's been pretty quiet. How about you? I hear you're doing work for the D.O.D."

          "Nothing interesting. They hired me for forensic accounting, so that's exactly what I've been doing."

          "Desperate for some action, huh?"

          "Always. Aren't you?"

          "I guess. I'm getting old, Annika." Old wasn't a word Annika would use to describe Kieran: tired, maybe, sure, but he only had ten years on her, maybe fifteen if she caught him at the right (wrong) angle. But he'd been in the Web longer than she could remember, than both of them could, probably. Dexter DeWitt had handpicked him from a waiting room full of hopefuls, taken to him with a hunting knife and pared him, cut by cut, into a killer. Moving through life like that, you feel light, you feel invincible.

Until you don't.

          "You want to settle down?"

          "Maybe. Don't you?" Kieran folded his arms. What she could see of his forearms was scarred, silvery: a criss-cross of old wounds, tally mark victories of thirty good years in the business. "You were close, once."

          "I was young, it's not the same thing."

          "It could've been, if you let it. You had a way out. You could've left clean."

          "No, I couldn't. And you couldn't, either."

          "I guess you're right." The soft hiss of the gas stove was replaced by the kettle's whistle. Kieran turned off the heat and removed the kettle, pouring hot water into two plain white mugs. "How's your mom?"

          "I don't know. You probably talk to her more than I do."

Kieran laughed at that. "Probably."

          "Definitely." Annika looked away. Keats had curled up the foot of the kitchen table—slipped into deep, heavy sleep. The kind you find at the bottom of a bottle, not underneath a blanket. Annika glanced back at Kieran, who hadn't yet noticed. He was right. He was getting old. "Can I ask you something?"

          "Of course you can. Do you still take milk with your coffee?"

          "I do. Just a splash." Annika watched him take the half-step between the stove and the refrigerator. Unlike his smaller appliances, it was a matte, gun-metal grey. "When someone gives you an assignment, do you see it as a choice?"

          "Are you asking as a friend, or a colleague?"

          "I'm not asking as either. I just want to know your answer."

          "When Dexter tells me to do something, it's not usually a request." Kieran poured some milk into one of the mugs, then a considerable amount more into the other, his own. He handed the first mug to Annika, who accepted it gratefully. "But that's not really an answer. I guess... no, I don't see it as a choice."

          "Not even in extenuating circumstances?"

          "You've known me for a long time, Annika. There are never any extenuating circumstances. If you live a life in order, you won't ever have to leave things to chance."

Annika nodded, taking a moment to taste her tea, absorb his words. Kieran was one of the Web's most senior members, not unlike a son to hierarchy head Dexter DeWitt. A highly competent tracker and an even more able killer, his codename was Recluse, after Loxosceles reclusa: the brown recluse spider, which is known for its tissue-destroying venom, capable of inducing necrosis. The spider itself is named recluse for its isolationist nature—it is not aggressive, and rarely bites. Only when provoked.

But as Kieran just said: he didn't see it as a choice.

And Annika knew that when the bodies started falling, he would be the first person they called.

          "Can I ask you something else, Kieran?"

          "Mhm." He nodded, blinking—slowly, stupidly, uncharacteristic of him even this late at night. His gaze was slow to follow Annika's movements: first, her putting down her mug, second, her removing the vial of antivenom from her jacket pocket. He opened his mouth to say something but all that left his lips was a strangled gasp: Annika supposed he was feeling the muscle cramping now, one of many symptoms that presented in cases of lactrodectism.

Lactrodectism: the illness caused by the bite of black widow spiders, and related species. Naturally occurring bites are often nonfatal; however, oral administration of a concentrated form of the toxin yields a very different outcome. The venom of a black widow is comprised of active proteins, peptides and proteases. Its primary toxin, alpha-latrotoxi, binds to protein receptors and results in the release of neurotransmitters that lead to pain, muscle rigidity, vomiting, sweating—and, eventually, without proper medical attention, death.

          "In a few days, if you're still alive, Dexter will call on you. He'll ask you to come after me." Annika watched Kieran from behind the counter as he clutched at his bicep, then his chest. He made no other noises, just a desperate, distressed exhale. "You say it's an order, but I think this time—just this once—you can make an exception."

Kieran's arm spasmed in Keats' general direction. Hoping for help, perhaps. It didn't matter, the dog was out cold.

          "Kieran, I don't want to kill you. You welcomed me into your home as a colleague, as a friend. But I know you. He'll send you, and you won't stop till you find me. You'll be hunting me like a predator does prey. I can't have that. You're too good." Pause. Well, maybe not that good, considering. Annika put the vial of antivenom next to her mug. It gleamed something precious in the clinical, display-home light. "And you'll just get in the way."

          "What is this?" he finally managed, slumped back into the corner of his kitchen counter. "Black widow venom? It's nothing."

          "Tell your internal organs that, Keller."

          "I'm immune."

          "No-one's immune. You're tolerant, maybe, but poison is poison. And they called us Black Widows for a reason."

Kieran shook his handsome head, his face pale and eyes squeezed shut. "I thought we were good, Annika."

          "We are. And we'll always be, as long as you look me in the eye right now and tell me that when the time comes, you'll stand up to him, and you'll say no. You'll say no, and you won't try to find me."

          "I can't, Anni."

Annika stared at him for a long moment. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

          "If he can't send me, he'll send someone else."

          "I can handle someone else. Only you can I beat by charming my way into your home, drugging your dog and poisoning your tea. I feel like a killer in an Agatha Christie novel." Annika knew he'd appreciate that reference, and he did, managing a laugh through gritted teeth. "Or maybe just a killer."

          "Can you make it quick? It hurts."

          "I will. And I know, I'm sorry." Annika took back the vial with a sigh, pocketing it, "Don't worry: I'll make sure someone takes good care of your dogs."

With a gun procured from her handbag, Annika shoots Kieran twice, once in the neck and once in the head. He falls back against the cupboards, lifeless in an instant and Keats, drug-addled, drowsy, doesn't even shift in his sleep.

All you needed was a professional clean-up crew and then you'd have it: a perfect, beautiful home for a perfect, beautiful family to live in. Annika was so light, so weightless, so inconsequential in the grand scheme of this hypothetical storybook life, that she left no fingerprints, no trace. She was there and then gone and so was Kieran Keller, the Recluse, now and forevermore. Untouchable and irretrievable.

On the way to the closest non-euthanising animal shelter, hoping Kieran's dogs would keep their sweet temperaments well into their new adopted lives—praying there would be no nosy neighbours, no adventurous mailmen, no small, fragile children that these animals might be tempted to sink their teeth into—Annika couldn't stop thinking about it.

          It hurts.

          I know.

Annika leaves the dogs tied up outside the Humane Society of Fairfax Country. She gives Keats one last kiss on the forehead and goes.

          They called us Black Widows for a reason.

Kieran had been a friend—genuinely. He deserved better.

But so did she.

She stops thinking about it.

AUTHOR'S  NOTES

🕸️ GRAPHIC BY eidclons 🕸️

it feels truly evil to cast will graham!hugh dancy as a character and then immediately kill him off, but it had to be done 😪 i know this chapter is very short, and definitely not typical bayports-fare (see: DYNASTY in its 11k word chapter era) but writing these quickly without overthinking them is doing a world of good for my productivity. this fic will be written much like my drafted MIDNIGHTS fic for those who are familiar; basically, i end chapters when i end them, no consistency. short chapters with a slowburn on character development, #LetsGo

it's a good thing, i think. when was the last time i updated in a timely fashion? though technically this was published in 2025, so i guess if i stop and stall here i've already fulfilled my 1-update-per-year quota.

let's keep our fingers crossed for the alternative. thank you so much for reading! i'll see you soon, i hope ❤️ happy new year!

🕷️ GRAPHIC BY soulofstaars 🕷️