Portia was gone. Vanished like smoke after that ribbon slipped from her hand at Magnolia Plantation, her eyes wide with fear, her fancy burgundy dress a blur as she fled into the crowd.
I’d called her, texted her, left voicemails that echoed in the void.
Nothing.
Silence.
My gut churned, a mix of panic and rage, my mind spiraling. Was it me? The ribbon? The ghost of my mother reaching out, a blade aimed at my heart?
If someone—her, Department 77, whoever—could slip that into my pocket in a sea of revelers, past my instincts honed by years of blood and war, what else were they capable of? What wasshecapable of?
I wanted to storm The Palmetto Rose, bang on Portia’s door, demand answers.
But I didn’t.
She needed space, I told myself, though it felt like a lie. Truth was, I was scared—scared she’d look at me like I was the danger, like I’d brought this shadow into her life.
I paced my room at Dominion Hall, the red ribbon burning a hole in my pocket, its metal tassel heavy as a grenade.
My Silas. Soon.
Was it really her? My mother, alive, taunting me? Or 77, playing their game, using her to unravel me?
I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe. I needed space, needed clarity, needed something other than this fucking ache.
The smart move was to call my brothers, lay it all bare—the phone, the ribbon, the message. Marcus would curse and strategize, Elias would dig into the tech, Noah would steady me with his quiet strength. They’d have my back, like always.
But my stubbornness was a raging beast, clawing at my chest. This was mine—My Silas—a wound too personal to share.
And more than anything, I needed to know about her. My mother. The woman who’d called me hers, then vanished into 77’s shadows, leaving a hole in my heart I’d spent years pretending wasn’t there.
I grabbed my keys, and drove to the old Dane home on Sullivan’s Island. It was past 2 a.m., the world dark and still. The house stood quiet, a weathered Lowcountry relic with peeling paint and a sagging porch, the place we’d grown up before Dominion Hall’s steel and stone. No one lived here now, just memories—my brothers’ laughter, my father’s gruff voice, my mother’s stories that made us giggle and spook.
I parked, killed the engine, and stepped out, the ocean’s hum a low pulse in the distance. The silence was a balm, wrapping around me, slowing my racing mind. I sat on the porch steps, the wood creaking under me, and closed my eyes, letting the quiet take me.
That’s when I heard her.
“Silas.”
My eyes snapped open, my heart stopping.
She stood there, in the moonlight, like an angel carved from shadow. My mother. Caroline Dane. Her hair was grayer, her face lined with years I hadn’t seen, but it was her—those storm-gray eyes, that soft smile, the voice that’d tucked me in as a kid. She wore a simple black sweater, jeans, her posture calm but cautious, like she’d carried the weight of the world too long.
“Are you real?” I asked, my voice rough, barely a whisper, my body frozen.
She nodded, her eyes soft, and held out her arms. “I wish I could’ve come sooner, My Silas.”
My chest cracked open, a flood of memories—her laugh, her stories, her hand on my forehead when I was sick.
I stood, slow, like moving might shatter the dream, and walked to her. My hands trembled as I reached out, half-expecting her to vanish, but she was solid, warm, real.
“Mom,” I said, the word foreign, a child’s plea.
She pulled me into her arms, and the world shrank, everything coalescing into that moment—her scent, like lavender and salt, her heartbeat against mine. I wasn’t The Ghost, wasn’t a killer, just her son, her Silas, and I held her like I could keep her this time.
I don’t know how long we stood there, seconds or hours, before I pulled back, holding her at arm’s length, my hands on her shoulders. Her face was older, etched with pain and secrets, but still beautiful, still hers.
“I have questions,” I said, my voice hoarse. “So many fucking questions.”
