Chapter 4 The Stranger in the Dark

Eveline Shore

The whisper cut through the dimness like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“Eveline…”

Barely formed. Barely sound.

A breath shaped into a name.

But nothing about the moment felt soft. Nothing felt familiar. My muscles tensed as though every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, yet my legs stayed completely still, rooted to the floor by a cold, tightening fear.

The lamp’s glow flickered, stretching the shadows along the walls until the room felt longer, narrower, almost distorted. The edges of the furniture blurred into darkness, turning my childhood living room into an unfamiliar place—one where danger could hide between heartbeats.

My hand tightened on the edge of the table. I forced air into my lungs but it felt heavy, as though the air itself resisted entering my chest.

“Who’s there?” The words scraped out of me, thin and shaky.

Silence answered first.

Then—movement.

A shadow sliding across the far wall.

Slow. Deliberate. Human.

My pulse thrashed in my ears. My gaze darted toward anything—anything—that might help me defend myself. The house was too quiet, too still. A shallow breath caught in my throat as my hand found the ceramic mug on the table, the one with faded paint from years of dishwashing. I grabbed it even though it felt ridiculous—a mug against a man in the dark. But instinct makes fools of us all.

The shadow moved again. Larger, closer.

I stepped backward, the floor creaking beneath me. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, heavy and sour.

“Eveline.”

The voice again—the same tone, the same calm—and my panic spiked. The sound was clearer now, unmistakably masculine, low and steady, but carrying something I couldn’t name. Urgency? Regret? A warning?

I pressed myself against the wall, the ceramic mug shaking in my hand. “If you come any closer, I swear—”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

Lies.

Or the most cliché opening line in every missing-person documentary.

“Then why are you in my house?” The words burst out of me louder than I intended, cracking with fear I could no longer conceal. “Answer me!”

A soft breath escaped the darkness, almost like a sigh of resignation. Then the figure stepped forward, slowly, into the weaker edge of the lamplight.

When the face came into view, my breath stuttered.

I knew him.

Not personally, not intimately, but enough to recognize the lines of his face, the broad set of his shoulders, the dark, thick hair that looked perpetually mussed even back in high school. I remembered him standing behind Silas in old yearbook photos, always slightly off-center, like he didn’t want to be in them but stayed because Silas asked.

Jonas Whitaker.

Older now. A harder edge to him. His jaw sharper, stubble shadowing his cheeks. His eyes—dark, storm-colored—held something fierce and restless inside them. The last time I saw him, I was sixteen and he was leaning against Silas’s truck at the harbor with a wrench in hand, laughing at something Silas had said.

Then one day he was gone.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

My hold on the mug loosened, but I didn’t lower it completely.

“Jonas?” My voice was barely a whisper. “What… what are you doing here? And why in God’s name did you sneak into my house?”

His jaw clenched as though he were bracing himself for an impact. “I needed to talk to you before anyone else did.”

A cold line traced down my spine. “What does that mean?”

His gaze flicked toward the folded paper on the table—the note—the one that had turned my stomach upside down earlier. “It means things are happening faster than I expected.”

“You left this?” My voice trembled as I lifted the paper.

Jonas didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

My stomach twisted. “Why leave something so cryptic? Why not knock on the door like a normal person?”

“Because knocking would’ve gotten us both killed,” he said, his voice low and certain.

The cold in the room no longer felt like the damp autumn air. It felt like fear sliding into my bones.

“What are you talking about?” My voice came out small, fragile.

Jonas stepped forward. I raised the mug again and this time he stopped dead in his tracks, lifting his hands slightly—not terrified, just careful.

“Eveline, listen,” he said, breath steady. “Silas didn’t just disappear.”

My throat tightened. “I know that.”

“He didn’t drown.” Jonas’s voice softened with pain he clearly tried to hide. “He didn’t run away. He didn’t fall off a cliff or get swept out with the tide.”

I felt the ground sway beneath me.

Jonas leaned in just a fraction, eyes locked onto mine.

“He was taken.”

The room tilted. My knees weakened. I gripped the wall behind me as nausea swirled under my ribs.

“By who?” I whispered.

Jonas’s jaw twitched. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

Not yet.

The phrase hit me hard. Not never.

Not I don’t know.

He hesitated, eyes softening. “Silas found something… something buried. Something dangerous. Something this town was never supposed to uncover.”

The lamp flickered again, a sharp tremble of light that made the shadows flutter across his face. For a moment, he looked haunted—like someone carrying the weight of too many secrets. Someone who’d been running too long.

My fingers slipped on the mug, my grip weakening.

“Why come to me?” I forced the question through a throat that felt too tight to breathe. “Why not the sheriff? Why not someone who has authority? Why not… anyone but me?”

“Because they can’t help you,” he said firmly. “And some of them might already be involved.”

My heart sank.

Involved.

Involved in what?

Jonas’s expression softened, his tone dropping to something almost pleading. “Silas trusted you. And I trust you. If you want to find him alive, you need to believe me when I tell you this town is not what you think it is.”

Alive.

The word slammed into my chest so forcefully that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Hope surged, wild and terrifying, because hope always comes with the possibility of devastation.

“You know where he is,” I said. It sounded like an accusation, but in truth, it was desperate pleading.

Jonas’s eyes flickered. “Not exactly. But I know where to start. And I know who’s been watching you.”

A chill raced across my skin. Watching me. Watching my house. Watching tonight?

“Watching me?” I repeated.

Before Jonas could answer, a sharp knock detonated through the silence, reverberating off the walls like a gunshot.

I jumped, letting out a gasp I couldn’t contain. Jonas’s entire body tensed. He moved instantly, sliding back into the hallway shadows with practiced stealth. He pressed a finger to his lips.

The knock came again—harder this time.

“Eveline Shore!”

The voice was deep, authoritative, and entirely unfriendly.

Jonas’s expression shifted into something fierce, almost panicked.

My mother’s startled voice drifted from upstairs. “Eveline? Who is that?”

Jonas angled his body closer to me, whispering sharply, “Don’t open that door.”

The pounding escalated, shaking the wooden frame.

“This is the sheriff’s department! We need to speak with you!”

My breath hitched. Every instinct in me wanted to run to my mother, to protect her from this strange and sudden nightmare, but Jonas’s presence anchored me to the floor.

He leaned in, eyes burning. “Whatever happens, do not let them take you in alone. They’re not here to help.”

The voice outside thundered again. “Eveline! Open up now!”

Jonas took a step back, his jaw tightening with urgency. He moved closer, lowering his voice to a near-soundless whisper against my ear.

“Choose very carefully who you trust tonight.”

Then, like he had been pulled backward by the shadows themselves, Jonas slipped down the hallway, his footsteps completely silent despite the old wooden boards. He disappeared into the back of the house—gone before I could even form the words to stop him.

I was left standing there, the note still trembling in my fingers, facing the silhouette of the sheriff through the front door’s frosted glass.

For the first time since Silas vanished two weeks ago,

I didn’t feel grief.

Or confusion.

Or numbness.

I felt truly, completely unsafe.