Page 41 of Closer Than You Think
“Close . . . ” The word feels hollow. Teddy's face flashes in my mind, his smile forever etched in my memory, his secrets buried with him.
“Please, just think about it, okay? I'll check back in with you soon.”
“Fine,” I relent, the fight draining from me. “Bye, Alex.” The call ends with a click, leaving a silence that throbs with tension.
“Is everything all right, dear?” Irma's concern washes over me, but it's the prickle of awareness that tells me we're not alone.
I turn slightly, noticing the shadow stretched across the floorboards—an ominous sign. Silas stands by the doorway, his presence filling the space like a silent tempest. His brow is furrowed, eyes dark with something unreadable. I hadn't heard him come in, but there he is, listening—always listening.
“It's nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile.
Irma pats my arm, a wordless reassurance, but the seed of unease has already taken root.
The kitchen's warmth wraps around me, a comforting contrast to the chill of Silas's silence as he hovers in the doorway. The phone is still warm against palm, Alex's words echoing inside my skull. Irma's hand on my arm is the only thing anchoring me to the moment.
“Share with me,” Silas commands, his voice cutting through the fog of my frustration. The sound of it—sharp, insistent—snaps my focus to him.
I blink, caught off guard. “It was Alex Mercer. He's a reporter investigating my ex, or rather my late boyfriend Teddy's death . . . ” I trail off, my words tangling with my thoughts.
“Tell me,” Silas urges, stepping closer. His proximity sends my pulse racing, an instinctual reaction to the intensity in his eyes.
“Alex keeps asking for my help, but I don't know anything. It's like he thinks I'm holding back, but . . . ” My voice falters, frustration seeping through. “I have nothing to give.”
Silas's jaw tightens, a silent vow of protection etched into the hard line of his mouth. He moves like a shadow across the room, drawn to the turmoil swirling within me. There's something comforting and terrifying in the way he wants to shoulder my burdens.
He eyes Irma, a silent conversation occurs between them, and she quietly leaves the room.
“Anything else?” he probes, his gaze never leaving mine, searching for truths that I've yet to unearth myself.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, the movement dislodging a strand of hair that falls across my face. “Just . . . just more questions than answers. He thinks I might have Teddy’s tablet but I don’t. At least, I couldn’t find it.”
Silas's hand comes to rest against the cool granite of the kitchen island, his fingers flexing slowly, deliberately. The muscles in his jaw clench as he processes my words. His eyes, usually a vibrant green, darken like the forest that encircles Alcott City at dusk, clouded with something akin to a storm brewing on the horizon.
“Alex shouldn't be dragging you into this,” Silas finally says, his voice low and even, yet there's a razor-sharp edge to it that sends shivers down my spine. “You're not involved.”
I watch him, tracing the lines of tension that map his face, mapping the silent struggle behind his stoic facade. There's a tempest in those eyes, one he's fighting to keep contained. He stands rigid, a sentinel in his own home, yet I sense the undercurrent of protectiveness that always seems to simmer just beneath his surface.
“Silas.” My voice is a whisper, tentative. I reach out, my fingertips barely grazing the back of his hand. “What is it? You look . . . worried.”
He glances down at my hand on his, then back up to meet my gaze. For a moment, we're locked in a silent conversation,volumes spoken in the exchange of a look. But he pulls away gently, offering me only the ghost of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with, Hallie. I'll handle it,” he assures me, but it's clear that whatever thoughts are racing through his mind are far from nothing.
“Okay,” I say, more to fill the silence than anything else. Part of me wants to pry, to peel back the layers of Silas Thatcher and understand what dark secrets churn beneath. But another part, the one that's come to know the complex intricacies of this man, understands that pushing will only build walls between us.
“Trust me,” he adds, his voice softening ever so slightly, as if he senses my internal struggle.
I nod, stepping back and letting my arm fall to my side. “I do, Silas.”
We stand in the vastness of his sleek, modern kitchen, the distance between us charged with unspoken words and unanswered questions. I can't help but wonder what shadows pass behind those eyes, what dangers lurk in the corners of our entwined lives.
Silas takes a step toward the hall, pausing to glance back at me, and there's an uncharacteristic hesitation in his movement. “I need to make some calls. Don't worry about Mercer; I'll take care of it.”
Nineteen
Silas
The rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the glass tabletop is the only sound in the surveillance room, a stark contrast to the silent hum of technology that surrounds us. Screens cast a blue glow over the faces of my team, their expressions set in grim lines as they sift through the mountains of data we've collected on The Syndicate.
