Page 33 of Whispers in the Dark
He hadn’t spoken in months. Maybe years. But Rook knew he was still in there. At least he hoped.
He crouched in front of him, silent for a long time, simply watching. The light flickered across his face—cool, unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, like examining a portrait that had started to peel.
“You stopped feeding three days ago,” Rook said quietly. “They marked you for disposal.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even flinch.
“But I’m not letting that happen.” He leaned in slightly. “Because you still matter. You’re the last thread.”
Rook reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photo. Old, worn. A moment frozen in time: Charlotte Everhart and Henry Byron in full uniform, side by side, smiling like the world hadn’t gone dark yet.
He held it up between them. “You remember this?”
No movement. No words. But Byron’s eyes blinked. Once.
And Rook smiled. “That’s what I thought.”
He rose slowly, sliding the photo back into his coat. “My father didn’t believe in mercy, but he did believe in meaning. And you—you meant something to her. That’s why he kept you. When he was gone, they kept you as part of their sick experiment. But you need more treatment than I’m capable of giving. That’s why I’m delivering you.”
He stepped around the bed and began undoing the straps. One by one. On purpose.
Byron’s body barely responded. No strength. No resistance. But Rook didn’t need him strong. He just needed him to exist. To be seen.
“They won’t understand,” Rook murmured, lifting him under the arms. “Not Monroe. Not Maddox. They’ll think this is sentiment. Emotion. But this isn’t for them. I’ll tell them I disposed of you. I wish I could have done this earlier. Like I did for Mara.” Her name fell from his lips like a prayer.
He dragged the man slowly through pine needles and dirt to his vehicle, footsteps echoing in the wind. Each step was a betrayal of the system he’d been raised within. Each breath in the cold air was another crack in the foundation of the facility. This wasn’t death. It was resurrection.
And when Charlotte saw Henry Byron—alive, broken, real, it would be the start of the facility unraveling. And of her reckoning.
The driveto the Blackwell Institute for Trauma was short, cutting through the rolling South Dakota landscape still dusted with the last stubborn traces of winter. It was early March—the snow hadn't entirely given up, and the air occasionally still carried the bite of deep winter.
The modern facility loomed ahead, built to blend into its surroundings with timber beams, stone accents, and tall windows that mirrored the moonlight. On paper, it was a place built for healing. Tonight, as Alex eased the truck intothe parking lot beside the others, it felt more like a safehouse preparing for a siege.
They were the last to arrive. Everyone else had gone ahead after the restaurant, while he and Charlotte stopped to retrieve Bailey. The dog had left Charlotte’s side to sit quietly in the back seat, alert but calm, head resting on the edge of the window.
Charlotte hadn’t spoken much on the drive. She was staring ahead now, hands folded in her lap, her posture controlled—too controlled.
Alex reached over and briefly touched her hand. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look at him. But she didn’t pull away either.
Sophie’s SUV was already parked by the staff entrance to the acute care wing, the soft perimeter lights casting long shadows across the gravel. She stood near the entrance, rubbing her temples, phone in one hand.
She looked up when she spotted their truck. “You guys head to the house,” she called as Alex and Charlotte stepped out. “I’ve got to meet the ambulance and get intake started, but I should be home soon. If I’m not, don’t wait, just crash. There’s plenty of space.”
Olivia nodded from the porch steps. “Check in when you can.”
Sophie smiled faintly. “I always do. Tristan’s with the ambulance, so I’m not worried.”
Alex gave a short nod. They didn’t need to hover over Sophie. But still, he stayed close, ready if something shifted.
The road to Sophie and Tristan’s house curved gently through a grove of tall pines that lined the institute’s outer perimeter. The tires crunched over gravel, and as they crested a small ridge, the house came into view, tucked into the landscape like it had always been there. A real South Dakota homestead. Sturdy log walls, wide wraparound porch, golden light glowing from within. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney.
It looked like peace. But Alex had learned better than to trust appearances.
He parked near the porch, and Bailey jumped out beside him, his paws landing softly on the ground. Charlotte came around the side of the truck without a word, her eyes on the house. She paused at the bottom step, as if bracing herself for something heavier than exhaustion.
Inside, the house smelled like cedar and firewood. The warmth hit Alex first, then the familiarity. The fireplace crackled quietly. Shelves lined with well-worn books ran along the far wall. A handmade quilt was draped over the couch. Photos of Sophie and Tristan smiled from frames, and one of them included a man with dark hair and a surgeon’s eyes.
James Blackwell, Tristan’s younger brother. He lived here with them when he wasn’t in the operating room or flying to some conference. He was a neurosurgeon: quiet, observant, and entirely unflappable.
