Maybe he's out, she thought.But that doesn't mean the journals aren't in there—along with whatever he may have already translated.
Kari checked her watch.Almost twenty minutes since she'd left Ruth's house.She needed to decide quickly or call Ben for backup as promised.
The decision crystallized as she noticed a small window near the back of the house standing slightly ajar—perhaps for ventilation on the warm evening.Just large enough for someone of her build to squeeze through if she removed her jacket.
"Sorry, Councilman," she muttered, removing her service jacket and laying it carefully aside."Exigent circumstances."
The window presented a tight fit, but Kari managed to wriggle through with minimal noise, dropping lightly onto what felt like a utility room floor.She drew her weapon and flashlight, sweeping the beam across the darkened space.Laundry machines, storage shelves, a door leading into the main house.
She moved quietly through the house, confirming each room was empty before proceeding to the next.The place showed no signs of disturbance—everything was organized, almost unnaturally neat.The kitchen looked barely used, its counters free of the clutter that accumulated in most homes.
Silver's office occupied what would have been a formal dining room, its walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk dominating the center of the space.Kari searched for the journals he had promised to translate, opening drawers and checking shelves, but found nothing resembling Remy Silver's original notebooks.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming text from Ben:Check-in time.Status?
She quickly replied: At Silver's house.No one home.
Ben's response came a few moments later:On your way back, then?
Not yet, she replied.Give me a few minutes.
A few minutes for what?
Kari ignored the message.She wasn't going to leave until she was absolutely certain the journals weren't here.
The living room contained more bookshelves, these filled with a mixture of academic texts and traditional literature.Kari scanned the titles, noting volumes on ceremonial practices, Navajo creation stories, and histories of the reservation.One section appeared dedicated to boundary concepts—thresholds between worlds, liminal spaces, transitional states.
No journals, however.
Stepping back, she noticed something unusual on the floor—scuff marks in a semi-circular arc.The bottom edge of the shelf was scuffed, too, the paint worn through as if the shelf had brushed against the floor numerous times.
As if the shelfmoved.
"Hidden door," she murmured.She tried pulling the shelf, but it didn't budge.She tried pushing instead, but that didn't work, either.
Certain there had to be another way to move the shelf, she began pulling the books out one by one and peeking behind them before replacing them.She came to a large, unmarked tome that didn't move.It was stuck, as if glued in place.
Kari grabbed the top of the book and pulled it.There was a soft click as the book pivoted downward like a lever.
Kari's heart accelerated as she grabbed hold of the edge of the shelf again.She pulled once more, and this time it moved, grinding against the floor and revealing a small doorway.
Kari stepped through the doorway into a room that should not have existed according to the house's external dimensions—a space deliberately concealed from outside view, windowless and claustrophobic.In the middle of this small space was a low stone table, its surface covered with a hand-woven cloth upon which rested photographs arranged in a five-pointed star pattern.Kari recognized the images immediately—the three recent victims alongside photographs of what must have been the original victims from fifty years earlier.
Kari stared at the photographs, stunned.What the hell?
Surrounding the photographs were ceremonial items—a stone mortar and pestle stained with the residue of ground herbs, bundles of sage, cedar, and juniper tied with red thread, and small cloth pouches containing what appeared to be white prairie aster flowers.
The walls held maps and diagrams, some appearing to be copies from her grandfather's original notes, others created more recently.Red lines connected locations across the reservation, forming a pattern that resembled a five-pointed star centered on an area Kari didn't immediately recognize.
Moving closer to the maps, she saw locations marked with dates—both from fifty years ago and recent days.Cold Water Canyon.Antelope Lake.Cottonwood Wash.The exact locations where bodies had been found, past and present.
But it was a fifth location, marked with today's date, that drew her attention.A remote area labeled "Shadow Cave" with detailed directions sketched beneath it.Beneath the location, written in block letters: FINAL THRESHOLD POINT.CEREMONY OF COMPLETION.
Beside this map hung what appeared to be journal pages preserved behind glass—not her grandfather's writing, but what must be Remy Silver's original notes, along with handwritten translations.By the look of them, these translations had been made a long time ago.
Which meant that David Silver had lied to her about the translations—and about a lot more, by the look of it.
Kari carefully photographed the contents of the room with her phone, careful to avoid touching anything.Then she noticed a small shelf near the door—a wooden box containing five small bundles of herbs, four marked with check marks, the fifth still unmarked.Written on the box in the same handwriting: SHADOW WALKER ASCENSION VESSELS.
