Page 197 of Kentrell

I waited, staring at him.

Let the silence stretch long enough to force more out of him.

“What does that mean?” I pressed.

He was quiet… too quiet… for a beat too long.

Then finally…

“You ever meet somebody who smile like they ain’t got no soul behind it?”

His voice dropped… low… weighted.

“That’s him. Everything about Malcolm feel like a setup.”

I blinked, letting his words settle.

He wasn’t being dramatic.

He meant it.

Deep in his gut.

There was something there… something old and unfinished.

But he didn’t elaborate.

And maybe… maybe I didn’t want him to. Not yet.

Not while I was still trying to untangle my own knots.

So I nodded slowly… let the silence settle back in.

But this time…

It didn’t feel hollow.

It felt…held.

Like something he was carrying for me.

With me.

We dipped past another curve, the road narrowing before widening again… curving past a tall black iron gate that began to slide open before Kentrell even slowed down.

Motion sensors maybe… or something less obvious.

The bronzed marker on the gate caught the headlights.

Caldwell Manor.

I straightened instinctively.

The name itself had weight.

Like legacy. Like history.

It was dark, but the motion lights lining the driveway flickered on as we approached—flooding the path in a soft, golden glow that caught the frost clinging to the trees.

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