Maisie spotted the pair from the second-floor stairwell window. A man and a woman, standing uncomfortably at the estate's gate, clearly not Alucards, and just as not reporters.
The woman clutched her purse tightly, her eyes darting toward the surveillance fixtures disguised as bird feeders. The man kept glancing up at the house, posture tense, as if waiting for someone to come out and confirm their worst fears.
They didn't need to. Maisie recognized the woman's face, only dimly, from a photograph once shown in passing. Gene's mother. The resemblance was unmistakable now, even beneath the woman's heavy makeup and nervous smile. For a split second, Maisie couldn't breathe.
Gene had never spoken about her family, not really. She'd spun vague stories, half-lies about bad childhoods and cutting ties. But they were here now. And whatever Gene had been hiding… it was unraveling.
Maisie stepped back from the glass, frowning. She didn't know what disturbed her more, the fact that Gene's parents had come all the way here, or the realization that Gene had never mentioned them.
In all the years they'd worked together, in all the secrets they'd shared, both spoken and unspoken, Gene had never talked about family.
So why were they here now?
They didn't look like tourists or distant relatives stopping by uninvited. They looked tired. Determined. Like people who'd been searching for someone who didn't want to be found.
Down below, Marlow stepped out to meet them. He was all graciousness, as usual: a polite bow, a quick murmur of words, the practiced smile of someone used to turning people away gently.
Then, without so much as a blink, he ushered them toward the side entrance. No commotion. No announcement. Just… absorbed into the walls of the estate.
Maisie's stomach twisted. Gene hadn't been around much lately. She was always off running errands for Jack or doing recon. Maybe she was even on another classified assignment. Maisie had stopped asking.
Something about the way Marlow handled it all, with that eerie calmness, made her uneasy.
Gene's absence suddenly felt like more than a coincidence.
The Lennox drawing room was always uncomfortably quiet, but today it felt colder, like the air had retreated from the room, leaving only the sharp edge of tension behind. Harry Lennox sat with practiced poise in his usual high-backed chair, a bone-white porcelain teacup untouched beside him.
"Yes, Mrs. Vance, Of course we're concerned," he said, voice clipped, as if reading from a cue card. "But your daughter hasn't lived here. Her professional affiliations, frankly, were never any of my concern."
Gene's mother looked like she hadn't slept in days. She gripped the edges of her purse, knuckles pale. "She said she was working with a peacekeeping agency. Some government-sponsored initiative. But we haven't heard from her in weeks. Not a single message. Her account activity has stopped."
Her father leaned forward. "We know she was staying somewhere in the city. We thought maybe here, if not under your roof, then at least in contact with your family. She said she was close with Maisie."
Harry didn't flinch. "She was. For a time."
Maisie stood frozen on the stairwell above, just out of view. She hadn't meant to listen, but the voices below had drawn her in like a hook under the skin. She gripped the railing tighter, her mind spiraling.
She had known Gene worked with the White Angels. That part wasn't a lie. Gene had said it was an internship, a research track, something tied to public service and medical policy.
She'd even mentioned fieldwork a few times, but always brushed off the details with a smirk and a half-truth.
But this, vanishing, disappearing off the grid entirely, leaving her parents frantic and chasing rumors, this was new.
Maisie remained at the top of the stairs, chest tight. Gene had lied to her family for years. Lied convincingly, cleanly, without ever breaking eye contact.
And now, Gene was gone.
Her mother kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Across from her, Harry Lennox offered a smile that was more gesture than feeling.
"She always said it was a service program," she murmured, voice brittle. "She was so proud of the work. She said it helped people."
A pause.
"She lied," she whispered then, like saying it aloud might undo the truth of it.
The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp and disorienting.
Gene had been seventeen, sitting at the foot of her bed, legs crossed, arms folded like she was already preparing for war. Her mother had walked in holding a pamphlet labeled The White Angels Civic Foundation. Neatly printed.
Medical mission work, education, and urban restoration, exactly the kind of noble fiction a parent wanted to believe.
"You're sure about this?" she'd asked, scanning the form. "It says it's based out of private facilities, no university affiliation?"
"It's legit," Gene had said quickly. "Government-funded. New model. They want applicants with leadership potential."
Her mother had nodded slowly, uncertain. "And that Jack man? He seemed…"
"Professional," Gene had lied, her smile too perfect. "Don't worry."
She hadn't thought of that conversation in years. Now it came back like a bruise pressed too hard.
Back in the Lennox drawing room, the walls loomed with cold grandeur. Harry poured tea that he didn't touch. Her father sat stone-faced beside her, staring at the steam curling from his cup.
"We just want to know she's safe," he said, each word carved from effort.
Harry folded his hands. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know. She rarely shared personal details, even with us. A very private girl, your daughter."
Maisie stood frozen on the stairs above, hearing every word. And for the first time, she realized: even Gene's internship had been a curated half-truth. She had told Maisie more than she'd told her parents, but even that had been wrapped in omissions.
Maisie had never questioned the line between trust and control until now.
Maisie waited until the door clicked shut.
Then she leaned against the banister and exhaled slowly, only now realizing how tightly she'd been holding herself. Something in the house had changed. The silence had deepened, pressed in closer, like the walls themselves had drawn breath and held it, waiting.
Gene's mom had looked older. Not in the gray-hair, tired-eyes way, but in that soul-heavy, 'the world has not made sense for months' way. The kind of look people had after a funeral. Only this time, no one had died. At least, not yet.
Maisie ran a hand through her braid, fingers snagging briefly on a tangle she hadn't noticed. She had been part of the White Angels, too, an intern, kept mostly on the periphery, handling logistics, running surveillance reports, never anything too deep. Gene had vouched for it. Had made it sound like they were doing good. Necessary work.
But now, in the silence left behind by Gene's parents, Maisie realized how little she'd truly known. Gene hadn't just been a fellow recruit. She'd been something else entirely.
Now it felt like Gene had been leaving breadcrumbs in a maze that doubled back on itself, and Maisie was starting to realize she was the one who'd been walking in circles the whole time.
Her throat burned, but she swallowed it down. No tears. Not yet. If Gene had gone dark, there had to be a reason. She wasn't stupid. She wasn't reckless. She wasn't... gone.
Maisie turned away from the stairwell, silent as the shadows.