"If you leave now," Mr. Wilson says slowly, "you won't learn your brother's secret."
Thea can't stop herself from turning on the spot with wide eyes. The doubt is already warring in her mind, after only one sentence. Ollie doesn't keep secrets from her, right? After all, it wasn't but a week ago she told him he was the only one who didn't lie to her—and he just stood there. If he was lying to her, he would have looked guilty—wouldn't he? Then she clears her mind as she realizes it's probably just a ploy to turn her against her brother.
Still, the doubt and the sensation of not knowing make her take robotic steps back to the chair where she sat before, and she takes her seat, crossing her legs at the ankle. "What secret?" she asks casually, trying to play it as cool as possible.
Mr. Wilson must see right through her, because he just chuckles. "Probably the biggest secret of your life," he responds in that smooth, soft Australian accent. "One that involves your mother, too. You've been lied to all of your life, Thea. Of course, your mother had no choice, really—imagine what control Malcolm Merlyn would have had over her if he had known that you were his daughter."
Thea freezes in her seat. "What?" she asks softly, the breath knocked out of her. It can't be true, can it? She voices her next thought, mostly for her own benefit: "Robert was my father."
"That's what your mother let him believe," he returns easily, as if he's talking about the weather and not upending her entire life. "She didn't want him to know about her affair—and about the child that resulted." He levels an intense look at her. "And Oliver knows, too, but he's decided not to tell you."
"I don't believe you," Thea says flatly. Her mother may be a liar, but even she wouldn't lie about something this important—would she? And Oliver—well, her first reaction is that of course he wouldn't tell her; he wouldn't want to upset her, and he wouldn't think it was his place.
"Of course you don't," Slade agrees easily, "because you're a smart girl, Thea. You shouldn't believe me—I've given you no reason to." He holds out a stack of papers. "But perhaps these will." Thea takes the documents from his hands, analyzing the scientific speak thoroughly. "You can read them if you like," he continues, "but they all tell the same story—you and Robert Queen show no relation at all. Oliver is your half-brother. Malcolm Merlyn was your father."
The last words don't help his case—whatever it may be. Oliver is her half-brother, and they only share a mother. But Oliver has always been the best brother a girl could ask for, even when she hated him for stealing her drugs and judging her life choices. She thinks of how he whispered something in their mother's ear at her campaign speech, and how her mouth had set into a frown for a fraction of a second. Then she thinks of how Oliver put an arm around her and kissed her forehead, and she realizes that's probably the day he found out. But now she sees it in a clear perspective, and puts it all together: "He knew I was his half-sister, but he loves me anyway."
Slade chuckles as though she's told some sort of joke. "Of course he didn't—how could anyone possibly love the child of two mass murderers? He only pretended to love you, as did your mother. And if anyone else knew, they'd hate you too." He tries to put a hand on hers, but she pulls away. "I could help you, Thea. We could seek revenge together."
His words are only partially right in her mind—he brings to light her worst fears. Oliver doesn't love her—Roy doesn't love her—and nothing will ever matter again. She doesn't need the likes of Slade Wilson—a psychopath—to find her revenge. She can do that herself.
She rises, throwing the papers on his lap. "You're a liar and a killer," she states, surprisingly calm despite the war of emotions in side, "and I don't need you." Before he can protest, she turns on her heel and walks out the door for the final time. Slade Wilson is a disease that eats at people in weakened states, and she will not become one of his victims.
But she will have her revenge—expel her anger—and both Oliver and Moira will regret their decision to keep a secret of this magnitude.