Page 72 of Whispers in the Dark
“I’m putting Noah and Charlotte on the Ward tapes,” Ethan continued. “Graham’s going to join them. He brought in his notebooks as well. I want eyes and ears on every angle. Maybe Noah can see something they missed.”
And just like that, the room shifted again.
Alex didn’t show it, but inside, he felt it settle—solid and cold. Ethan didn’t want him near Graham. Didn’t want him working with Charlotte on this piece of the case.
Fine.
He turned toward the door, where Brad was already starting to gather his things. But before they could leave, Graham stood and crossed the room.
“Alex.” He offered his hand. “Graham Cullen.”
Alex shook it, meeting his eyes.
“I’ve heard good things,” Graham said with the kind of warmth that was practiced but not fake. “I know my showing up might feel a little… abrupt. Just wanted to say—I’m not here to step on toes. I respect what you’ve built. I’m just trying to add to it.”
Alex gave a slight nod, measured. “Alright.”
Graham smiled—small, genuine—and didn’t press further. Then he stepped back, giving Alex space, and turned toward Charlotte and Noah.
Alex watched him go. He didn’t distrust Graham. But he didn’t trust him either.
Brad tapped him on the shoulder. “You ready?”
Alex gave one last glance at the team forming across the room. Then he grabbed his pack and followed Brad out.
Twenty-Four
Charlotte watchedAlex leave the room with Brad, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft click that somehow felt heavier than it should have. She didn’t move right away. Just stared at the spot where Alex had been standing, jaw clenched tight when Ethan handed down the assignment. He didn’t say a word, but she saw it.
Ethan wasn’t going to choose sides, and he was giving them space. He wasn’t going to force proximity.
She forced herself to turn back to the table, shoving the thought down. Graham and Noah were already settling in, chairs pulled close, the pile of files sitting between them like a loaded weapon. A laptop blinked in sleep mode. Coffee cups sat untouched. Noah looked composed, like he always did—sharp suit, straight back, that ever-present focus that said federal prosecutor before he even spoke.
He glanced up at her. “We ready?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yeah.”
Graham was watching her too. Not prying, but quietly gauging her mood, like someone careful not to step on glass he couldn’t see. He didn’t act like he owned the room. She appreciated that.
Noah leaned in slightly. “I know you two had quite a day yesterday,” he said. “I’d like to go over your encounter with Ward, what you learned from his current cellmate, and this lead on Victor Graves, the former cellmate. Then we’ll go through your notes. Even if you were both there, different eyes mean different truths. I want both.”
Charlotte nodded again and reached for her notebook, flipping it open. She stared down at the page for a long second.
“Ward’s dead,” she said, voice steady but low. “He died right in front of me. Eyes open. Lips still moving.”
Noah looked up from his notes.
“One second, he was there—talking in that slow, deliberate way that always made it feel like he was winding up to something. The next second, he collapsed. Fast. Too fast. Blood pooled under him like it had been waiting.”
She swallowed once. “He wasn’t answering questions. He wasn’t cooperating. That was never the point. He was saying what he wanted to say. Because he knew time was up.”
No one interrupted.
“With his last breath, he looked at me,” she continued, “and said, ‘It’s not me. It’s them.’”
Graham sat up straighter. Noah lowered his pen.
“‘Them,’” Charlotte repeated. “He wanted us to know it wasn’t him pulling the strings. That whatever happened—whatever’s still happening—he was just a part of it. Not the architect.”
