Page 130 of Silent Shadows

I sit back, now awake in a different way. “Owen.”

He sighs.

And there he is. My older brother. Bigger. Stronger. More solid in every possible way. The guy who taught me how to change a tire, pick a lock, and identify three separate constellations in the same summer. The guy who used to tell me ghosts wouldn’t hurt me, and then still sleep on the floor of my room after Mom and Dad died because I couldn’t stand the dark, even as a teenager.

He looks tired. Bone tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying something too long.

“What happened?” I ask.

Owen taps one finger against the mug. “I asked why satellite imaging kept dropping out over specific coordinates.”

My skin prickles.

“What coordinates?”

His eyes flick to the map.

Not directly. But close enough. My grip tightens on the edge of the table.

“Owen.”

“I asked why certain reports got reclassified the second a civilian field team logged matching audio anomalies.” He takes another sip of coffee. “I asked who was pulling archival files and why they were disappearing. I asked why a biological assessment from the late nineties had been buried under an aerospace budget code.”

The Machine seems to go quieter around us.

“And?”

“And apparently ‘what exactly are we covering up’ is not considered collaborative.”

My stomach drops. “You got fired for questioning things?”

“I got fired because I stopped shutting up about them.”

For once, I have nothing to say.

Which is alarming enough that Owen notices.

He leans against the counter and studies me. “You found something.”

“We found footprints.”

“You found something,” he repeats.

I look back at the map.

The northwest drainage is marked in red.

Sandy mud. Deadfall. No casual access. Thermal disappearance. Sound anomaly.

And now Owen.

My brother, who has spent the last decade telling me not every shadow is a conspiracy, is standing in my mobile command center telling me there are buried files and missing satellite images.

A strange, terrible vindication moves through me. Not joy. The door opens behind Owen, and Taylor steps in wearing cutoffs, a pink tank top, and the expression of someone who has already decided everyone else is moving too slowly.

She stops when she sees him. Owen looks at her. Taylor looks at Owen. The air changes in a way I do not currently have time to unpack.

“You always lurk over coffee like Dracula?” she asks.