11. The Watcher Revealed #3
“Thomas Webb,” I read from a small card attached to a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Ellen Mercer,” next to a pressed flower in a frame. “Maria Guthrie,” beneath a gold locket similar to the one Silas showed me earlier.
“Not victims,” Silas says quietly, coming to stand beside me. “Survivors.”
I turn to face him, and suddenly it all makes sense.
He’s not just some strange man spying on people—he’s on a mission for justice.
Every photo, note, and labelled item is evidence against Garrow.
This room isn’t a place for obsession; it’s where someone fights back the only way he can, by recording every wrong until the truth can come out.
“How many?” I ask, gesturing to the wall of personal effects.
“One hundred and seventy-three individuals over twenty-three years,” he answers without hesitation. “Plus their family members, another two hundred and forty-one people relocated to safety.”
The numbers overwhelm me—over four hundred lives changed by this quiet man working alone in secret, keeping up the network his parents started and risking everything to protect people who will never know him. Meanwhile, the town either ignores him or thinks he’s crazy.
“You’ve never received recognition,” I say, the unfairness of it suddenly overwhelming. “No one knows what you’ve done.”
Something like confusion crosses his features. “Recognition would defeat the purpose,” he says, as if explaining a basic concept. “Effectiveness requires invisibility.”
A sound from above interrupts us, the crackle of radio static followed by Garrow’s voice, distorted but recognizable, coming through what must be a ventilation shaft connecting to the library.
“—searched every inch,” someone reports. “No sign of her or anyone else.”
“Keep looking,” Garrow snaps, his voice clearer now as he must have moved closer to the vent. “She couldn’t have just vanished. Check the grounds again, the outbuildings.”
“Sir, we’ve been at this for hours. The warrant only covers until dawn, and we’re approaching that limit.”
A pause, then Garrow’s voice drops to that dangerous purr I’ve come to recognize. “If she isn’t found by dawn, burn it all down.”
“Sir?” The shock in the subordinate’s voice matches the ice suddenly flooding my veins.
“You heard me. Create an electrical fault in the east wing. Old houses are so prone to tragic accidents.” Garrow’s tone is casual, as if discussing nothing more significant than changing a lightbulb.
“This property has been a thorn in this town’s side for generations. If we can’t have it, no one will.”
Silas’s composed facade cracks for the first time since I’ve known him.
His shoulders stiffen, jaw tightening as he presses his palm against the wall, head bowed as if physically struck.
In the lamplight, I can see the pulse jumping in his throat, the whitening of his knuckles as his fingers curl against the wood.
His whisper cuts through the static: “Without these walls…” He doesn’t finish.
The mask slips. Gone is the shadow who moved through hidden corridors with silent certainty.
In his place stands a man facing annihilation, not just of timber and stone, but of his reason for existing.
His fingers trace the nearest photograph, a tremor betraying what his carefully composed face will not.
His honesty catches me off guard. I’ve always seen the estate as my inheritance, my duty, my safe place in a confusing world. But for Silas, it’s everything—his home, his purpose, and a mission handed down through his family.
Without thinking, I reach for his hand, my fingers sliding between his.
His skin is warm, calloused from years of maintaining the house in secret.
The simple touch sends electricity through both of us.
I can feel it in the slight tremor that runs through his arm, see it in the way his eyes widen slightly as they meet mine.
“Whatever happens next, we face it together,” I tell him, the words carrying a weight I hadn’t planned but don’t regret. “This house protected me before I even knew it needed protection. Now it’s my turn.”
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around his eyes, a relaxing of the rigid control he maintains over every movement. His fingers tighten around mine, not with the practical guidance he used in the passages but with something more personal, more human.
“Together,” he echoes, the word sounding like a vow.
From somewhere above, glass shatters, followed by shouts and the heavy thud of furniture being overturned.
The search is growing more destructive as dawn approaches and frustration mounts.
Soon they’ll make good on Garrow’s order, and everything Silas has built, everything my ancestors established, will be consumed in flames meant to look like an accident.
Firelight starts to flicker through the cracks in the walls.
I can’t tell if it’s from flashlights or the start of Garrow’s so-called electrical fault.
Silas and I stand together in the centre of his hidden room, hands joined, ready to defend not just a house, but the sanctuary it has been for generations of quiet resistance.