The wraparound porch glowed under dim lights, casting eerie shadows across the columns. The Spanish moss drifted with the breeze, soft and mournful.
Charlie’s hand tightened around mine as he led me down the steps. “You good?”
“I think so,” I said, legs trembling as they carried me forward. “I’ll believe it when we’re far away from here.”
And then I saw her.
A figure.
Moving at the edge of the tree line. Not running. Not hiding.
Walking away.
Slow and straight-backed, with long, dark hair cascading down her back and a white dress fluttering like a ghost.
“Wait,” I said, tugging Charlie to a stop. “Who is that?”
Charlie turned.
And froze.
His entire body went rigid, blood draining from his face. “No …”
“What?” I asked, heart slamming into my chest. “Who is she?”
He stared, eyes locked on the disappearing figure. “I think that was my mother.”
The world stopped.
The wind stilled.
And the shadows swallowed her whole.
32
CHARLIE
The plantation’s shadows clung to me as I scoured the grounds, my boots sinking into the damp earth, my flashlight cutting through the Spanish moss that hung in the trees.
I’d seen her—Caroline Dane, my mother, her dark hair and white dress a fleeting vision at the tree line, a memory that’d haunted me since I was a kid. Sloane had caught a glimpse, too, her wide eyes confirming it, but my brothers saw nothing, their skeptical glances burning as I swept the perimeter, finding only silence and empty air.
Marcus, leaning against the SUV, smirked and said, “That swim in the Bentley must’ve knocked your screws loose again, little brother.”
Rage flared, hot and sharp, and I lunged at him, fists clenched, ready to wipe that grin off his face, but Atlas’s massive hand clamped my shoulder, yanking me back.
“Cool it, Charlie,” he said, his voice a low rumble, and I stood there, chest heaving, Marcus’s smirk fading as Noah stepped between us, his calm stare forcing reason back into my head.
I couldn’t shake her image, though—Mom, alive, here, after all these years—and without proof, I was chasing a ghost.
Ryker clapped my arm, his voice firm. “We’re done here. Back to Dominion Hall.”
The drive back was quiet, Sloane’s hand on my thigh a lifeline as the vehicle’s headlights sliced through the Charleston night. My body ached, bruises from the crash pulsing under my soaked clothes, but my mind was louder, replaying Mom’s silhouette, her slow walk, the impossible truth of her presence.
At Dominion Hall, Sloane and I headed to my suite, the opulence a stark contrast to the plantation’s decay. We stripped, the shower’s hot spray washing away blood and salt, and I watched Sloane, her blonde hair plastered to her shoulders, her eyes soft but fierce, confirming what I’d seen.
“She was there, Charlie,” she said, her voice steady. “White dress, dark hair, moving like she didn’t care who saw.”
I nodded, my throat tight, questions swirling—why now, after decades, and was she tied to Department 77, the pricks who’d nearly killed us?
