Page 63 of Silent Shadows

“Fine,” I say. “Your packet is marginally less ridiculous now.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Taylor groans. “Please don’t reward him.”

Miles rolls his eyes before returning to the matter at hand. “Seriously though, we don’t engage with them unless absolutely necessary,” he says. “If they’re near Four Corners, we’ll adjust.”

“Adjust how?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine. For once, there’s no humor in them.

“We stick to the binder.” He leans back in his chair. “Grant chases headlines. We chase the truth. That only works if we protect the work… and the people doing it.”

A shiver moves over my arms. Fuck, that was hot. And distracting.

I think back over what he just said.

We. Not him. Not the crew. We. Like I’m already standing on his side of things.

Like somewhere in that ridiculously earnest brain of his, my safety and trust got filed under important.

And the truly inconvenient part is that I trust him.

Not with anything dramatic. I’m not handing over my Social Security number or anything. But out here? I trust that if something goes wrong, Miles will get me out of it. That if I tell him something matters, he’ll listen. That he won’t make me feel stupid for being scared.

And somewhere along the way, his trust started mattering to me, too.

I don’t want to be another person who looks at what he cares about and laughs. I don’t want him wondering if I’m waiting for the right moment to turn all of this into a punchline.

Which is a problem. Because technically, turning all of this into something people want to listen to is exactly why I’m here.

As the sky overhead fades from oranges and pinks to dark blues and purples, dinner eventually finds its rhythm again. But something has shifted for me.

I thought the first episode was about belief as performance, but that’s more Ridgefield than Strange Terrain. Then I thought maybe it would lean true crime by focusing on the unexplained sound. Now I’m starting to wonder if it’s about integrity. What belief becomes when the world keeps trying to make a joke out of it.

Later, after plates are cleared and everything’s brought back inside, Miles stands at the tiny sink with his sleeves pushed up and his glasses fogging from the hot water, washing the pan himself despite everyone telling him not to.

“You cooked,” I say, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to clean.”

He glances over. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help.” He smiles, scrubbing sauce off the pan. “Did you get good work done today?”

The question catches me off guard.

“I think so,” I say.

His eyes flick up from the pan. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I can’t stop listening to that sound.”

His hands still for half a second. Then he turns the water lower. “Yeah?”

I swallow. “It’s there.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean…” I exhale, looking toward the dark window. “It’s really there. Clear. Not like something I can easily write off as wind or editing or whatever.”

He studies me. No smugness. No I-told-you-so.