9. Glimpses in Shadow #3
He tilts his head slightly, acknowledging the point without a hint of apology.
“Observation has been necessary for your protection. The town has…” His voice trails off, every word enunciated like he’s reading from an etiquette manual.
I suppress a shiver that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.
There’s something almost hypnotic about the way he talks, like listening to poetry in a language I only half know.
“… expectations regarding this property and those who inherit it.”
I flip my journal open to a page where I’ve scrawled about a dozen questions in increasingly panicked handwriting.
I tap my pen against one I’ve circled three times.
"I need to understand the town first. Garrow.
What they actually want with this place?
" I look up at him. "And why nobody’s seen a Merrick in decades. "
Silas’s eyes drift to the fire, his profile sharp against the dancing flames. “The Merrick family never disappeared,” he says, each word deliberate and precise. “We simply… relocated our existence to the margins of perception.”
“You went underground,” I translate.
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. “An apt metaphor, though in many cases, we operated within the walls rather than beneath the floors.”
He shifts slightly, the movement so controlled it hardly disturbs the air between us.
“My grandfather discovered that certain families in town were being targeted, specifically, families who had helped vulnerable individuals escape dangerous situations. Arnold Garrow, Lyle’s father, had begun investigating discrepancies in population records. ”
“He noticed the pattern of disappearances,” I supply, remembering Nora’s research.
Silas nods. “He was not concerned with the welfare of those who had vanished but rather with identifying who had helped them leave. Three families were harassed, their businesses undermined, their reputations questioned. Two left town under duress.”
“But your family stayed.”
“We adapted.” His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away again. “My grandparents realized they could not abandon the sanctuary, nor could they continue operating in the open. So they staged their own disappearance, a boating accident from which bodies were never recovered.”
I lean forward, fascinated despite the gravity of his words. “But they never left.”
“No. They retreated into the hidden architecture of the estate, passages built by my ancestors specifically for this purpose. They continued their work in secret, while officially being mourned by the town.” His hands move slightly as he speaks, the first hint of animation in his otherwise controlled demeanour.
“The official record shows the property passing through distant relatives who rarely visited, maintained by caretakers who came and went.”
“But really, it was your family all along,” I say, pieces clicking into place. “Living here, using the hidden passages, helping people escape.”
“Yes.” The word hangs between us, simple but weighted with decades of secrecy. “Eventually, Garrow’s family threatened us, and we were forced to leave the house. But we continued our work underground, under the guise of our disappearance.”
I try to imagine it, growing up in hidden rooms, learning to move silently through a house that officially wasn’t yours, watching the world through secret observation points. “That sounds incredibly isolating.”
Something flickers in his eyes, recognition, perhaps, or surprise at being understood. “It was necessary,” he says, but there’s a slight hesitation that suggests more complex feelings beneath the statement.
“And your parents? Where are they now?”
“They coordinate our wider network from a location I cannot disclose.” His posture remains formal, but his eyes move constantly, scanning the windows, the doorway, checking for threats with the unconscious habit of someone who has spent a lifetime watching.
“They communicate through secure channels. Our work has expanded beyond town borders since Garrow’s surveillance has made local operations more challenging. ”
The candles flicker, sending shadows moving across his face.
God, he looks like a painting in this light, those lines around his eyes making him seem older than he is, but there’s something almost young in the way his expression softens when he talks about his family’s work.
My fingers twitch with this stupid urge to reach across and touch his cheek, just to make sure he’s actually real.
Would his skin be warm? Or cool, like the house?
I curl my hand into a fist instead, suddenly very aware of how unhinged it would be to just reach out and touch a stranger’s face.
Even if that stranger has been living in my walls for months.
“So you’ve been maintaining the estate alone,” I say, more statement than question. “Watching over temporary residents, keeping the house’s secrets, all while hiding from Garrow’s attention.”
“Until you,” he says, the two words carrying weight I can’t quite decipher. “Your inheritance was… unexpected. The property was supposed to pass to a distant cousin who rarely visited; the arrangement had worked well for decades.”
I cross my arms, nails pressing half-moons into my skin. “I hope I haven’t completely derailed your family’s decades of careful planning,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I meant it to.
He shakes his head, the movement surprisingly fluid.
“You misunderstand. Your arrival was unexpected, but not… unwelcome.” His fingers tap once against his knee, the only sign of internal agitation.
“You care for the house. You notice details others miss. You question rather than accept. These qualities suggest you might understand the estate’s true purpose. ”
His words catch me off guard, unexpected praise from a man who has spent his life in shadows. I duck my head slightly, hoping the candlelight disguises the sudden warmth I feel spreading across my face.
“Is that why you started leaving me clues? The footprint in the mud, the key, the sketchbooks?”
Yes.” He meets my eyes directly now, holding contact longer than before. “I needed to ascertain whether you would flee from the unknown or seek to understand it.”
“And now that you know I’m the understanding type?” I ask, acutely aware of the space between us, the charged quality of the candlelit air.
“Now,” he says, his voice softer than before, “we prepare for what comes next. Because Garrow will not stop pursuing this property and those who know its secrets.”
His words send a chill through me despite the fire.
Outside, the storm has finally stopped, leaving that particular silence that only comes after heavy rain.
I should be terrified right now. I should be running for my phone and calling someone sane.
Instead I'm sitting here calmly discussing generations of secrets with a stranger who's been watching me from inside my walls.
And yet something in me knows him — trusts him — even as another part of my brain is screaming that this is absolutely insane.
The candlelight catches his profile and for a moment I genuinely can't tell if I'm drawn to him or just to the mystery he is.
I stare at Silas across the candlelit room and feel something settle inside me — a certainty clicking into place.
The choice has already been made, hasn’t it?
Not because my name is on the deed, but because I understand now what actually matters: these walls that have hidden desperate people, and this man who gave up his whole life to keep them standing.
Whatever Garrow throws at us, he’s going to find me right here.
I clear my throat. “So… tell me about your day.” God.
Could I sound any more like I’m on a first date?
But what else do you actually ask a guy who has basically been your roommate without your knowledge?
His eyebrows shoot up for a fraction of a second before settling back into that careful, neutral mask.
I watch him turn the question over in his head like he’s looking for a trap.
Like maybe “what does a typical Tuesday look like for you” is secretly code for “where do you bury the bodies.” He takes so long to answer I almost take it back — but I need this.
I need to see the actual human being behind all that watchfulness.
“My day,” he repeats, testing the phrase.
“It varies according to necessity, but maintains certain… patterns.” His hands rest lightly on the arms of his chair, fingers occasionally tapping an irregular rhythm that I suspect he’s not even aware of.
“I wake before dawn. The house requires attention while the town sleeps, maintenance that would be noticed in daylight hours.”
“Like fixing roof tiles during thunderstorms?” I ask, remembering his silhouette against a lightning-filled sky.
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Precisely. Weather provides excellent cover for necessary repairs.”
His gaze shifts briefly to the window before returning to a point just past my shoulder—a habit I’m beginning to recognize as deeply ingrained vigilance.
“I monitor communications. My parents established a network of… allies, I suppose you would call them. People in strategic positions who share information about town activities, potential threats, and vulnerable individuals who may need assistance.”
“Dr. Rao,” I guess, remembering her careful protection of those research files.
He nods once, a precise movement. “Among others. Some know the full extent of our work. Others simply understand that certain information is valuable to us, without questioning why.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Wait, so this is bigger than just our weird little town? You have, what, a secret society hotline? A group chat?”