9. Glimpses in Shadow #4
“Something… like that,” he says, and I immediately cringe at myself for sounding like a kid asking about spy gadgets.
“My parents oversee the broader operation from a secure location. They coordinate safe passages, new identities, relocation support.” There’s a quiet pride in his voice when he talks about his family’s work.
“What began as a local sanctuary has grown into something more — a kind of underground railroad.”
“While you maintain the original safe house,” I assume.
“I serve as the visible anchor point,” he corrects gently. “The town must believe someone maintains the property, but not suspect its true purpose. I cultivate the reputation of a reclusive caretaker who appears occasionally but avoids social interaction.”
“The mysterious groundskeeper,” I say. “Is that why you’re dressed like you just walked off the set of a period drama?”
Something almost like embarrassment crosses his face — a fleeting shadow, jaw tightening, eyes dropping briefly to his waistcoat buttons.
I feel like an idiot the moment it’s out of my mouth.
This man has given up any semblance of a normal life to protect other people, and I’m in here mocking what he wears like some mean girl from high school.
“These clothes are… practical for the work,” he says quietly. “And less likely to draw attention than following current fashion too closely.”
I find myself wondering how much of his isolation is actually necessary and how much has just become habit after so many years of it.
“I’m sorry about the period drama thing,” I say, heat crawling up my face.
“That was a dickish thing to say.” I watch his face for any sign of real offence, then soften my voice.
“Do you ever actually leave? Go into town, talk to people?”
“Occasionally. When absolutely necessary.” His fingers resume their tapping, betraying discomfort with the personal nature of my questions. “I maintain the appearance of a caretaker who values privacy. It allows me movement without inviting unwanted interest.”
“But you’ve been watching me since I arrived,” I point out, not accusingly but with genuine curiosity. “Why such close observation?”
Silas shifts slightly in his chair, the first truly uncomfortable movement I’ve seen from him. “Your arrival posed potential complications. I needed to assess whether you would interfere with our work or perhaps be receptive to it.”
“And your conclusion?” I press, suddenly needing to know exactly what he thinks of me.
His eyes meet mine directly for the first time since we sat down, their intensity startling in the candlelight. “That you belong here more than you yet realize.”
His words land somewhere warm in my chest and spread outward from there.
I look down at my journal and fidget with the corner of a page, not trusting my face to behave itself right now.
"So," I say, clearing my throat. "You keep tabs on me, spy on the town, fix leaky pipes.
What else does a typical day look like?"
His shoulders relax slightly. “I keep records,” he says, long fingers gesturing toward the leather-bound volumes lining the shelves.
“Everything from which towns person lingered too long at someone’s gate to which floorboard creaked under your step last Tuesday.
” He traces the spine of the nearest book, its binding worn smooth by similar touches.
“Three generations of my family have filled these pages. The past speaks to those who listen carefully enough.”
“Like how Garrow’s father targeted families who helped people disappear,” I note.
“Exactly.” He nods approvingly, as if I’m a student who’s grasped an important concept. “The Garrows have always valued control above all else. When they perceive something, or someone, beyond their influence, they respond with surprising aggression.”
His gaze darts to the window again, this time with more focused attention. I follow his line of sight but see only darkness and the faint suggestion of stars. When I turn back, his posture has shifted subtly, more alert, shoulders straightening almost imperceptibly.
“What is it?” I ask, tension immediately coiling in my stomach.
“Dawn approaches,” he says, though the night outside still seems complete to my eyes. “I must return to my rooms before daylight makes movement more noticeable.”
My stomach drops at the thought of him disappearing back into the walls, going back to being a ghost instead of this actual person sitting across from me.
I swallow and try to keep my voice casual.
“So what now? You just… vanish again? Leave me little notes and move my coffee cups around?” I hate how much I want him to stay.
I hate that my fingers are itching to reach across the space between us.
For just a moment the severity drops from his face, replaced by something warm and unfamiliar — a real smile, the kind that makes fine lines appear at the corners of his eyes.
"I suppose that depends," he says, "on what’s needed. And what’s wanted.
" He stands in one smooth motion, fingers automatically straightening his already-immaculate shirt.
His gaze drops to the floor, then comes back to mine.
"I’ve guarded this house for twenty-three years and I have never once sat across from someone like this. Speaking… openly."