GONE
The border was quiet in the wrong way.
Ronan stood at the eastern checkpoint, the cut fence gaping behind him like a wound that wouldn't heal, and listened to the silence where there should have been pursuit. Dawn had broken an hour ago, pale and cold, revealing tracks that led nowhere—vehicle traces disappearing onto paved road, scent markers washed away by chemical solvents, the professional erasure of someone who had planned this escape for longer than the 48 hours they'd been watching.
Silas was gone. And he had left nothing behind.
"His quarters,"
Ronan said into his phone, the connection to Damon clear but the report bitter. "Search them again. Top to bottom. Look for anything personal—photos, letters, items with sentimental value. Anything he couldn't replace."
"He took nothing,"
the wolf on the other end confirmed.
