Page 7 of Whispers in the Dark
Monroe would never see him coming. That was the point. He wasn’t her pawn. He never had been. He worked for one person. And Gideon Ward had given him a singular directive: wake her up.
So that night, he let himself in.
Rook moved with practiced ease, a shadow against the pre-dawn gloom. He produced a slim, almost futuristic device from his pocket—a precision lock bypass tool designed to manipulate even the most robust deadbolts without leaving a mark. With a faint click, the tumblers yielded. He let himself in, the lock re-engaging silently behind him, leaving no physical evidence of his passage. His method was surgical, designed for discretion, not brute force.
Charlotte didn’t stir.
The dog was a variable. One wrong move and the whole plan collapsed. But Ward had prepared him. Bailey was loyal but predictable. Rook dosed him with precision: clean, fast, painless. No harm. No noise.
He moved in silence, gloves on, boots wrapped. Every step calculated. The layout was burned into him: mudroom, kitchen, hallway, stairs, master bedroom. He could’ve walked it blind. He practically had. That was the job. Preparation was the job.
Leave nothing. Except what mattered.
The Polaroid came first. He placed it just within reach on her nightstand. It was visible but not obvious. She needed to find it herself. It had to feel accidental. Like memory returning on its own. Until she turned it over.
Until she saw the date. Until she saw him.
A moment she believed was erased. A conversation she thought no one ever heard. But there it was, captured frombehind the one-way glass. His face in the reflection, watching her like he already knew how this would end.
He waited. Watched.
As she cleared the house, the matchbook went under her mattress. Holloway Motel. Worn. Stained. Heavy with implication. Another relic from a chapter she thought was buried.
Together, the clues whispered,We see you. We remember. So do you.
Rook’s precision and expertise were evident in every move he made, but even he knew the value of deception. The muddy footprints Charlotte would discover were deliberately left behind as a false clue to mislead her. Rook knew that even the smallest detail could sow confusion. By doing so, he’d crafted a subtle misdirection, forcing her to chase shadows while he remained one step ahead.
Charlotte didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t the target. She was the key. Not to her own safety, or even her strength, but to her role. Ward’s last variable. His final play before his time ran out.
And Rook? He was the fuse.
Gideon Ward was dying. And with him, the last barrier standing between Monroe and full, unchecked control of the facility. She believed no one could stop her.
She was wrong.
Rook wasn’t a servant. He wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts leave traces. Rook left purpose.
He didn’t follow Monroe. He measured her. Every step. Every flaw. He played her game better than she did. Quietly. Precisely. He didn’t have to win. He only had to wait for the right moment.
And tonight, that moment had come.
He stepped back into the dark, locked the door behind him, and disappeared before the sun even thought about rising. Because his job wasn’t to make noise. It was to ignite something.
And he had just lit the fuse.
Alex Marcel knewsomething was wrong the moment he pulled into Charlotte’s driveway.
The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. The back door was locked. It was something she never did when she knew he was coming. She was always up before him, always moving, always one step ahead. But this morning everything was still. Dead still.
That wasn’t like her.
He let himself in with his key, every step inside slow, measured, his breath catching in his throat. The air was thick, like the house itself was holding its breath. The scent of coffee lingered, but there was no warmth to it.
Then he saw her.
Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, staring down into a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. Her hands were curled around the mug, knuckles pale, shoulders locked in a rigid line. She wasn’t just tired. She was wrecked. And not in the way sleep could fix.
His chest tightened. “I locked the door.” His voice was even, but his heart had already started hammering. Where was Bailey? He was usually at the door, tail wagging, demanding affection.
