Page 32 of Whispers in the Dark
When they pulled into her driveway, Alex left the engine running and turned to her. “Wait here,” he said gently. “I’ll get him.”
She nodded, and he was out the door before she could change her mind.
Inside, the house was dark, still. Too still. But the moment Alex pushed open the door, he heard the sudden scramble of claws on hardwood, fast and urgent. Bailey came charging from the hallway, a low bark ready in his throat, his body tense with instinct. But he skidded to a halt halfway through the living room, tail twitching, ears flicking forward. Recognition clicked.
Alex crouched low, holding out a hand. “Hey, buddy. It’s me.”
Bailey let out a huff, trotted the rest of the way, and pressed into him, tail wagging now, body warm and solid with relief. Alex gave him a firm rub behind the ears. “Good boy. Let’s get you out of here.” Bailey stretched and followed without hesitation.
When Alex returned to the truck, Charlotte was already leaning across to open the door. Bailey jumped in and curled against her immediately, and her hand went to his fur like it belonged there.
Alex climbed in, shut the door, and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t say anything.He didn’t have to. Because now it wasn’t just about protecting her. It was about protecting all of them. And whoever started this? They wouldn’t see the end coming.
Rook satin the shadowed driver’s seat of a beat-up sedan two blocks down, engine off, hands still. His eyes stayed fixed on the front of the restaurant, where warm light spilled through tall windows, and the tension in the room behind them had just shifted.
He’d seen the delivery kid arrive. Nineteen, maybe. Hoodie pulled low. Face half-hidden under a ball cap. Paid in cash. Walked in with a bouquet and a small envelope. No questions. No small talk. The kind of errand you’d forget by morning.
Exactly the point.
The roses were from Rook. So was the card. But he didn’t need to plant them, he just needed to see what they triggered. And they worked. Charlotte made it easier for him.
He planned to have them delivered as they left the bridal shop. He knew about that appointment, but seeing the groupmove to the restaurant was perfect. Through the glass, he saw Charlotte stiffen. Saw the change in her shoulders, in the way her fingers gripped the edge of the table like she’d just been touched by something no one else could feel.
Rook didn’t need to hear the words she said in the restaurant. He saw them in her face. The way her lips formed the words, “They’re watching.” In the way her eyes scanned the room, not for danger, but for a pattern. She wasn’t panicking. She was processing. Still sharp. Still in it. Just as his father told him she would do.
That confirmed what he already suspected: Charlotte wasn’t cracking, like his mother said she might. She was recalibrating. Like his father said.
He adjusted the scope of his small monocular, tracking the tension in the group. Marcel was watching everyone, his hand resting lightly on Charlotte’s back, supportive but tense. That was real. Rook filed that away.
Brad Killian’s phone lit up. Then Sophie’s. The timing was too perfect.
Rook zoomed in slightly, saw the way Brad’s expression turned unreadable, a shade too calm to be honest. Sophie didn’t flinch either. She was controlled, but there was something urgent behind her eyes.
He closed and opened his eyes, then exhaled a soft breath. They found Mara. “Let them help her,” he whispered.
His voice was barely audible, but it carried everything he hadn’t said. Mara was the woman the facility swore had escaped. The one they all thought vanished into the wind. The one Monroe swore would die from exposure. But she hadn’t. Rook had taken her. Hidden her. Protected her. He’d gotten her out and delivered her to his safe house on his way into town. Before making sure Charlotte got the flowers, the message, the warning, he let Mara go.
Not because he didn’t care. But because she deserved the one thing the facility tried to erase from her entirely—her mind.
They were already in motion. He watched Sophie suggest regrouping at her house on the grounds of the Blackwell Center and saw how easily the others accepted it.
No pushback. No drama. Pavlovian response. This was a team that had seen fire before.
Rook sat back in his seat, the monocular dropping into his lap. They were shifting into lockdown—physically and emotionally. Pulling the group in tighter. Closing ranks.
Exactly what he needed to see. Not because it changed the plan. But because it clarified who was vulnerable and who wasn’t. Who could fight the final battle.
He checked his watch, then glanced in the rearview mirror.
The kid with the roses had already vanished. No name. No trace. A favor called in from his father on a burner number. A few bucks and a pre-written card. No explanation. But it did the trick. It wasn’t meant to threaten Charlotte. It was meant to confirm something: she still knew how to read the pattern. And someone else was starting to leave her breadcrumbs.
Rook started the car, lights off, slipping away before the group exited into the night air. The game had just shifted. And now? So would he.
The airin the room was stale. Not just with time but with something rotting beneath it—like hope that had long since died and turned to mildew. The flickering bulb overhead maintained a low and constant glow, casting shadows along concrete walls. Henry Byron rested in a bed that had been bolted to the floor.
Once, he had been a man of stature. A uniformed officer. A solid, good man. Someone Charlotte Everhart trusted. Someone who stood tall beside her in photos—smiling, unguarded, alive. That was years ago.
Now, he was a husk. Gaunt. Pale. Skin clinging to bone like paper draped over wire. His beard was long and matted with streaks of gray and filth. His wrists were raw from restraints. His eyes, dulled to the color of fogged glass, barely blinked anymore.
