Page 42 of Where The Devil Kneels

“I think you’re lying, Calder.” Garrow gestures sharply, and two officers immediately move toward the stairs. “I think you know exactly where she is. And I think you’ve been interfering with my investigation.”

“Your illegal search, you mean?” Rafe doesn’t back away as the officers approach. “Warrant only covers safety inspection. Doesn’t authorize you to tear the place apart looking for ghosts.”

“Restrain him,” Garrow orders, all pretense abandoned.

The officers grab Rafe’s arms, twisting them behind his back with unnecessary force. He doesn’t resist, though I can see the pain flashing across his weathered face as they wrench his shoulder at an unnatural angle.

“Last chance to be helpful,” Garrow says, climbing the steps until he’s eye-level with Rafe. “Tell me where she is, and where she’s hidden the evidence.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rafe replies, his voice strained but steady.

Garrow smiles — that slow, sick thing I’ve come to hate. “Your granddaughter starts high school next fall, doesn’t she? Caroline, is it? Pretty little thing. Takes after her mother.” He reaches out to straighten Rafe’s collar with mock concern. “Would be a shame if she got mixed up with the wrong crowd. So many dangers for young girls these days.”

The blood vanishes from Rafe’s face so fast it’s as if someone sliced his throat, but his eyes ignite with something primal. “Put one finger on my granddaughter, and I will hunt you until your screams echo in hell.”

Garrow’s lips curl into a thin smile as he adjusts his cuff links. “Officer Benson, I believe our friend Mr. Calder here needs time to reconsider his position. A nightin one of our cells might improve his memory. Resisting arrest. Obstruction. I trust you’ll handle the paperwork creatively.” He waves his hand dismissively.

Rafe lunges forward against the officers’ grip, veins bulging at his temples, teeth bared in a feral snarl. “You goddamn son of a bitch,” he spits, the words tearing from his throat like something ripped and bleeding.

Without thinking, I scramble toward the small ladder I spot against the wall of our observation tunnel, the one that must lead up to the grate and into the foyer beyond. “We have to help him,” I hiss, already reaching for the first rung.

Silas moves with that unnerving silent speed of his, suddenly between me and the ladder, his body a physical barrier. “No.” The word is quiet but absolute.

“They’re going to arrest him, or worse, because he’s protecting us!” I try to push past him, but in the narrow tunnel, there’s nowhere to go.

“And exposing yourself accomplishes what, exactly?” His voice remains low, controlled, but with an edge I haven’t heard before. “Getting yourself arrested alongside him? Revealing your hiding place to Garrow?”

“I can’t just watch while they hurt him for helping us!” I attempt to duck under his arm, but he shifts, completely blocking the passage.

“That’s exactly what you have to do.” His eyes lock onto mine, intensity radiating from him in almost palpable waves. “Rafe knew the risks. He’s played this game with Garrow for decades. He can handle a night in jail.”

“And his granddaughter? Can she handle whatever Garrow sends her way?” My voice rises despite the danger of being overheard. “How many more people have to suffer before someone stands up to him?”

“Standing up to him requires strategy, not martyrdom!” Silas’s control slips slightly, real emotion bleeding into his words. “You rushing out there without a plan doesn’t help Rafe; it just gives Garrow exactly what he wants.”

I lunge for the ladder again. This time, Silas’s hands clamp onto my shoulders, fingers pressing through my sweater. The sudden grip startles me, his first real touch, urgent and desperate against my skin.

“Let go of me!” I demand, struggling against his hold. My palms press against his chest, feeling the rapid thudding of his heart beneath my fingers.

“Not until you stop and think!” His face is inches from mine now, his voice an urgent whisper. “You expose yourself, you expose everyone, Rebecca, Dr. Rao, the entire network. Is that worth the momentary satisfaction of confronting Garrow?”

“We can’t keep hiding forever!” I push against him harder, furious at his restraint, at my own helplessness, at the entire impossible situation.

“No, but we need to choose when and how we fight!” His grip tightens, not painful but immovable. “Elara, please—”

Something in his voice, a crack in his usual composure, makes me pause my struggle. I really look at him then, at his face illuminated by the dim light filtering through the grate. What I see stops my breath in my throat.

It’s not anger or calculation in his eyes. It’s raw fear, the kind that comes from seeing disaster unfold in real time. He’s not restraining me to control me; he’s holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning.

“I can’t protect you if you throw yourself into his hands,” Silas whispers, the words barely audible over the commotion above as Rafe is dragged down the stairs. “Please. Not like this.”

His plea breaks something in me. Behind all that composure is raw terror — not for himself after decades in the shadows, but for me.

My hands stop pushing and rest against his chest. His heartbeat steadies beneath my palm as the front door slams above us, Garrow’s voice fading outside with his officers and their prisoner.

“They’re gone,” I say quietly, the immediate urgency dissolving, though the underlying problem remains.

The pressure of Silas’s fingers eases, but he doesn’t let go. We stand there in a strange limbo, too close for strangers, not close enough for anything else — while the echo of our argument still hangs in the air. His eyes search mine, asking questions his mouth won’t form.