Chapter 45 Silas
SILAS
“You sure about this?” I growl as the seven of us prowl up to the administration building.
“Yes,” Noctis replies, body humming with pent-up energy. It’s the same manic vibrations he gets when he’s closing in on a secret. Not that it matters. The cathedral was empty except for Evie’s busted phone.
“The whole thing is pretty fucked,” Erik chimes in. “I’ll admit my ego gets the best of me sometimes, but the dean thinking he can just drop into Evie’s life now and claim fatherhood is next level delusional.”
Mavros grunts in agreement as we push through the door into the lobby. A blonde-haired receptionist quirks a brow at us, then nods.
“The dean is down the hall, to the right, and all the way back,” he says, unfazed. “Just follow Sloane’s tears.”
Eric and I exchange a look before he shrugs and starts forward. The doors open, revealing a dark-haired girl with puffy eyes and a pink-tipped nose. A box of meager belongings is clutched in her arms as she stalks past us, desperately trying to stop the tears when she catches sight of my brothers.
Dominic, Bane, and Adrian offer to help, and for a moment, something nearly tangible passes between them, like a force drawing them together. But the woman—who I assume is Sloane—politely declines, leaving us with a quiet “good luck” as she walks away.
I turn to the open office door where Dean Whitehouser fidgets behind his desk. Erik hisses a warning, but I stride forward until I’m looming over him.
“Silas,” Erik warns under his breath, but I ignore him.
“Do you know who we are?” I ask, my tone calm but steel-edged. The dean nods frantically, eyes wide.
“Good,” Mavros says, cracking his knuckles. “When did you last see Evie?”
The dean’s gaze sweeps through us once more before settling on me. “Oh, you’re the biker gang Trisha warned me about.”
“Club,” Noctis corrects. “Biker club.”
Low chuckles sound from my brothers, but I’m not amused. “When?”
“Right after I spoke with her,” the dean says.
“I planned it as a nice surprise. I was going to tell her Roy stopped paying tuition, but that her real father has sway with the university—her real father being me.” He winks as if something he’s said is clever, but the ghost of a smile fades when he meets my glare.
He clears his throat and continues. “Then Trisha showed up, wanting me to hide the truth from Evie after I’d waited years. I should’ve known. I did have to threaten to expose our relationship to Roy if she didn’t let Evie attend university, but it was part of our agreement.”
“What agreement?” Erik asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Shared custody,” the dean replies matter-of-factly. “Trisha raises Evie with Roy. She keeps her marriage and image in the church. I get Evie for her young-adult life at Grace University.”
“That is the most fucked-up custody agreement I’ve ever heard,” Bane grunts as Dominic lets out a low whistle.
“It was a great plan,” Dean Whitehouser says defiantly. “But then Evie walked in on us—well, you know—and ran away. I followed her into the rain, I might add.”
“Dad of the year,” Erik mutters.
“I told her who I am and offered to cover her expenses while attending Grace University, which she took pretty well. Then she sauntered off toward the heart of campus.”
My gaze flicks to Noctis. To the cathedral.
“Was anyone with her?” I ask, feeling like I’m tugging on the final threads of a spool, only to find the ends frayed. “Did anyone follow her?”
“No,” he answers, but his brows furrow. “Trisha was talking to someone outside the administration building when I returned. She denied it. Said I was seeing things, and that she was just using the camera to fix her hair, but I recognized him. The young man frequents campus, despite not being a student. Light brown hair, blue eyes. He’s been reported half-a-dozen times by female students for inappropriate behavior. ”
“Inappropriate as in assault?” Erik asks, jaw clenching.
The dean gives a guilty shrug. “I’ve banned him from campus, but it’s not like I can enforce it. Besides, the cops say he’s harmless. Just visiting from out of state.”
Mavros shifts his glare from the pathetic sack of bones in front of us to me, mirroring my suspicions.
It can’t be. I killed him.
“Mark?” Erik asks, the purple lion across his leather gloves flexing.
“No.” The dean waves his hand vaguely. “The other one who joins Jonathan at church. Shaggy hair, tattoos. His cousin—Jameson.”
“Shit,” Noctis mutters, already typing furiously on his phone.
“Shit is right,” Erik agrees, catching my eye. “You think this is revenge for Evie…”
“Rejecting Mark?” Noctis finishes, eyes flashing. We can’t afford anything incriminating getting out.
Do you think Jameson is avenging Mark’s death? I ask silently, conveying everything I need to with a glance.
“No,” Noctis says, thumbs flying across the screen. “I don’t. Dean Whitehouser said he recognized Jameson from Trisha’s church. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, I always hated that place.” The dean nods. “Creepy. Trisha invited me once. Huge party, but I saw the prostitutes in the back of the cars. There was probably a dozen of them. I have my faults, but paying for sex from women who barely looked legal isn’t one of them.”
My stomach twists, my body registering the meaning behind his words before my mind fully catches up.
“I’ve found Jonah,” Noctis says, snapping my attention to him.
“It’s all here. The last piece of the puzzle.
The Blue Lagoon. Mark’s claim that someone else took over the circuit.
Shane’s drop point. Even the holier-than-fuck descriptions.
It all points to one person—Jonah. Only we know him by another name. ”
My pulse spikes, my body tensing and already preparing for a fight miles away.
“They weren’t prostitutes,” Noctis mutters, his voice heartbreakingly soft. He turns the phone toward me, the screen zoomed in on a grainy satellite image. It’s blurry, the poor pixilation distorting it, but I know the girl before he says her name.
Her dark hair is longer than I remember. Her body is thin, too thin, despite the years that have passed. Her chin is tipped back, eyes turned toward the sky like she’s praying for deliverance—searching for her wayward guardian angel to finally appear.
“Morana.” Her name is a choked sob, causing my brothers to take a collective sharp breath.
“And beside her…” Noctis says, dragging the frame over.
“Jameson,” I bite out, rage searing through my veins.
But Noctis keeps shifting the image until a third figure appears—grinning like the smug little shit he is, arm slung around Mark’s cousin.
Jonathan.