Page 24 of The Shadow King's Brother

I run it at high speed, knowing I have weeks of footage to go through. Day one after we closed the house, day two, day three... I run them over while Mrs. Gambini sneaks in with lemonade.

I hardly look at her; I’m too occupied with the screen.

“Thanks, Fanny,” I mutter. “You’re an angel.”

“You’re welcome, darling,” she rasps and sneaks out.

Day 16...Day 17… Day 33…. Day 34… I widen my eyes, leaning closer to the screen, as the timestamp flashes by. The footage blurs and I scramble to rewind it, my fingers trembling on the keyboard. The night vision footage flickers, showing only shadows and faint outlines in the darkness.

I stop the playback, holding my breath.

It’s... a deer.

A simple deer grazing in the brush, its eyes reflecting the light like mirrors in the night. I bite my lip, trying to calm my racing heart, suddenly feeling foolish.

This was a bad idea. Why did I believe Jackson?

Nothing he’s said has brought me anything real. The last eight months have been a blur of confusion and frustration, and still, I’m sitting here, clinging to a thread of hope, chasing ghosts. Looking for what? A deer.

I shake my head at my naivety. How could I have been so gullible? I curse Jackson under my breath, the bitterness bubbling up before I quickly swallow it, realizing how pointless it is to blame him.

It’s not his fault.He’s frustrated, depressed and looking for answers. I’m the one who chose to look into this.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I need a break, sighing I reach for the mouse, but then, I see it.

I freeze.

It’s not the deer. It’s someone.

The figure is barely visible in the shadows, but I see it—slim, hooded, moving with deliberate, unnatural stealth. The silhouette shifts across the screen, almost blending into the night, but the movement is too precise to be an animal.

My pulse spikes.

Who is that? Why are they here?

I hold my breath again, unsure if I’m even breathing, as I slow the playback down frame by frame. The grainy quality of the footage makes it difficult to catch any details, and the image is pixelated and distorted, but it doesn’t matter.

I know what I saw.

That figure… it’s familiar. It tugs at something deep in my gut, a recognition I can’t place. I stare harder, squinting at the screen, but it’s like trying to make out the details of a dream fading too quickly.

Ice water flows through my veins like a cold rush of dread.

This is it.

I replay the footage again, desperate for more. This isn’t just a random figure in the woods.

This is something bigger and darker, and I can feel it.

The slim figure enters the safe house, their movements precise, calculated—like a well-rehearsed dance. I watch, my breath caught in my throat, my pulse quickening. They step inside, and I switch to the feed from the house’s interior that I’ve pieced together.

They drop something—a paper? A folder? It’s hard to make out in the dim lighting. Is that what Jackson found? Is this the key to everything?

The figure rummages through the space, moving like a ghost, careful not to touch anything, not to leave a trace. Their hands glide over objects, never lingering, never hesitating, as if they’re afraid of leaving behind evidence. The camera captures it all, but the audio is garbage—just static, fuzzy white noise. The hooded person takes out a phone, the glow from the screen briefly illuminating their face, but I can’t see the features clearly.

Damn it.

I see their lips move, though. Is the person having a conversation? The shape of their mouth suggests words, but I can’t hear anything. The static fills my ears instead, like a constant buzz. I curse the silence.

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