Page 101 of Whispers in the Dark
Tristan gave a nod, measured and focused. Izzy moved to sit beside him.
“I called in all my government contacts. Maybe someone will give up the name and location of the program,” Ethan said.
Charlotte stood now, eyes clear, steady. “And I’ll pull every visitor record from my visits with Ward. Maybe there is something there. He never said Elias’s name, but he hinted—always. Like he wanted me to connect the dots without handing me the whole picture.”
Graham pushed back from the table, finally breaking his silence. “I’ll dig more into the black site theory. Transport manifests. Redacted ops. After I left the PD, I used to help run joint-agency transfers—trust me, even ghosts leave footprints.”
Ethan turned to the group. “If anyone comes knocking, you don’t answer. If you hear chatter about Alex on official channels, you tell me first. This investigation doesn’t exist on paper.”
Ruth gave a rare, cold smile. “We know how to keep a secret.”
Izzy nodded. “We’ll lock things down here.”
Ethan finally looked around the room. At all of them. “Whatever’s out there, it’s bigger than Alex. Bigger than Elias. We’re not just chasing ghosts—we’re chasing the people who did this to God knows how many other people. And if they took Alex, they’re going to try and erase everything he knows.”
Charlotte’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “Then we make damn sure he remembers who he is before they erase him.”
Ethan nodded once. “Brad and I can start moving now. And after we reclaim Alex, we burn the place that took him to the ground.”
Thirty-Four
The hallway lightsin the acute care wing glowed faintly, casting long shadows across the polished floors. The rest of the Blackwell Center was still—locked in that hush that only comes in the deepest part of the night, when even the walls seem to sleep.
Sophie Everhart moved quietly, her steps practiced and deliberate. She’d done this a thousand times, her hands steady, her mind focused, her voice gentle. She carried a clipboard tucked under one arm, a stethoscope around her neck, and a quiet exhaustion in her bones.
She paused outside Mara Dwyer’s door, scanned the monitor on the wall—no distress indicators, no anomalies. Still, she keyed herself in.
The door clicked open with a soft chime. Inside, the room was dim but peaceful. Mara lay in bed with a view through the window, still and small beneath her blanket, her profile pale against the ambient light. Her eyes tracked slowly toward Sophie, but her body didn’t move.
“Hey there,” Sophie said softly, entering the room. “Just me tonight.” She pulled on gloves and spoke the way she always did with patients who had receded into themselves—notcommanding, not clinical. Like she was talking to someone still listening, even if they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer.
“I’m going to check your heart rate and breathing, alright? Won’t take long. Nothing uncomfortable.” She approached slowly, crouching down beside her, eyes scanning.
Her voice dipped lower, almost like a secret being shared. “You know, I used to fear the quiet.” She checked Mara’s pulse with two fingers to her wrist. “Felt like I had to fill it. With noise, with talking, with… anything. Yep, I was a patient here.” She smiled faintly, just to herself.
She took a deep breath. “My mother’s boyfriend disappeared,” she said suddenly. “We think he was taken by the people who took you, who hurt you.” Her voice drifted, not directed at anyone. Just spoken.
Sophie glanced at Mara, expecting the same stillness. But something shifted. A glint caught the light—just under her eye.
Sophie leaned in. A single tear slid down Mara’s cheek. She froze, heart catching in her throat. “Mara?”
Still no movement. But the tears kept falling.
Sophie stood slowly, eyes wide, her pulse racing. She didn’t speak again, not yet. She didn’t dare break the moment. She stepped back, just enough to give her space. Something had broken through.
But what Sophiedidn’t know—what no one knew—was that someone else was listening.
Miles away, inside a safehouse cloaked in silence and signal jammers, Elias Ward sat in front of his monitor. His eyes hadn’t left Mara’s image for hours. He’d heard everything. Every wordSophie said. Every beat of her voice. And he saw the tears. Saw Mara respond. His jaw clenched. Not in anger. Not in fear. In hope.
He leaned closer to the screen, whispered so low it barely left his lips, “I see you. I love you, sweet girl.” And in the low hum of machines and soft hospital lights, the connection deepened, unseen but unbreakable.
A low humof fluorescent lights pulsed above. Monroe, dressed in clinical white, walked briskly through the corridor. Her tablet beeped softly—data flowing in. She stopped outside Sybil Vance’s office, adjusting her coat, then knocking and entering.
Sybil Vance, a woman in her mid-fifties, sat, composed but sharp-eyed. She looked up from a cluster of reports.
“Just got the preliminary scans from the F-series run. I thought you'd want to vet them before the director sees the projections.” Monroe sat across from her.
Sybil grimaced. “We don’t need another theoretical curve. We need something that works.”
