Chapter 188
Jackson's POV
I pushed open the safe house door, dance bag slung over my shoulder, and immediately spotted the familiar scene: Miles hunched on the living room couch, laptop balanced on his knees, phone clutched in his right hand like a lifeline.
Three takeout containers sat on the coffee table—two barely touched, one picked clean. Empty coffee cups formed a small graveyard around the perimeter. The curtains were still drawn, even though it was nearly four PM on a Saturday.
Miles didn't look up. His fingers flew across the phone screen, eyes bloodshot and locked on whatever message thread had captured his attention. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and I'd bet money he hadn't showered since yesterday.
"Miles," I said, dropping my bag by the door. "You know you're starting to look like some middle-aged dude with a serious internet addiction, right?"
No response. Miles's thumb scrolled rapidly through what looked like a chat interface, his other hand poised over the laptop keyboard.
I moved closer, peering over his shoulder. The screen showed at least five different conversation windows, notification badges pinging constantly. One username caught my eye: MidnightRunner had just posted "Next week's full moon falls on finals week. How am I supposed to manage both?"
Miles was already typing a response, his focus absolute.
"Seriously," I tried again, reaching for one of the water bottles I'd brought in. "It's been seven days. Seven. You've answered literally every single message that comes through. Are you playing some kind of werewolf social networking game or something?"
"Mm," Miles grunted, not lifting his gaze from the screen.
I set the water bottle directly in Miles's line of sight. His hand automatically reached for it, unscrewed the cap, took a sip—all without breaking eye contact with the phone.
"Okay, that's actually impressive," I muttered. "In a deeply concerning way."
I sat down next to him, close enough to read the screen more clearly. Miles was switching between conversations at lightning speed, offering advice here, asking follow-up questions there, cross-referencing information from different threads.
"Miles." My voice took on a more serious edge. "You need to rest. These messages can wait. You've been at this non-stop for—"
"No." Miles finally looked up, eyes unfocused but burning with something intense. "I can't. I'm looking for... I'm looking for someone."
My protective instincts flared. "Looking for who? What happened?"
Miles shook his head, already scrolling again. "Not sure yet. But I'll know when I find them."
I watched his frantic searching, concern mounting. This wasn't just dedicated admin work anymore. This was something personal, something desperate.
"Let me guess," I said, forcing lightness back into my tone. "You met some mysterious middle-aged she-wolf online who really gets you? Is that it? You two planning a romantic full moon rendezvous at Pine Trail?"
Miles's jaw tightened, but his eyes never left the screen.
"Come on," I pressed, trying to provoke a reaction. "Which lucky lady has you checking your phone every three seconds? Must be someone special if you're willing to survive on cold Chinese food and coffee for a week straight."
Nothing. Miles had pulled up the network's member directory, fingers typing search terms: Minnesota, north, 2008, displaced—
My teasing died in my throat. I recognized that kind of searching. That wasn't romance. That was investigation.
"Miles—"
He suddenly went rigid.
On the phone screen, a new message had appeared in the welcome channel. Username: NorthernAsh. "Hi everyone. Just joined. I'm from northern Minnesota originally. Really grateful to find this platform."
Standard introduction. Nothing remarkable. But Miles was staring at the next line like it held the secrets of the universe:
"Growing up, my family had this tradition—every winter solstice, we'd burn white birch wood in the backyard. My dad called it 'a gift for the moon.' Wondering if anyone else grew up with something similar?"
Miles's hand started trembling.
"White birch," he whispered. "Winter solstice. That's... that's a Wilson pack tradition. Only our family knew about that."
He fumbled to open a private message window, typed something, deleted it. Typed again, deleted again. His breath came faster.
My heart kicked into high gear. "Miles, what—"
"It's them." Miles's voice cracked. "Someone from my old pack. They're here. On the network."
His fingers finally steadied enough to type: "You mentioned white birch and winter solstice. Was this in Silverbrook?"
Silverbrook. I'd heard the name exactly once, in a hushed conversation between Miles and someone on the Council. A small town in northern Minnesota. The Wilson pack's original territory.
We both stared at the screen. One minute passed. Two. Miles looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
Then, a response: "You... you know Silverbrook? Are you Wilson pack?"
Miles's hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the phone. I reached out to steady it, watching his face contort with emotions I'd never seen before—hope, fear, desperate longing all tangled together.
Miles typed: "I'm Miles Wilson. Who are you?"
The longest five seconds of my life followed.
"Oh my God. Uncle Miles? It's Elena. Your... your niece."
Miles made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and his fingers trembled over the phone screen.
"What is it?" I asked, moving closer.
"Elena." His voice cracked. "My niece, Elena. I thought they were all..."
I watched him type with shaking hands: "Yes. It's me. Are you Abigail's daughter?"
The response came almost immediately: "Yes! Oh my God. We thought you were dead. We've been searching for you for fifteen years."
Miles's face went white. "They've been searching for me?"
Another message appeared: "The pack is still together. We migrated to northern Washington after we lost you during the 2008 relocation. Mom never stopped looking. None of us did."
"I don't understand," Miles whispered, reading the words over and over. "The pack... they're still together?"
He turned to me, swallowing hard. "Everyone else was gone. I searched for weeks. Months. But the trail went cold. I thought they'd been picked off by hunters, or worse. I thought I'd failed them. Failed my sister, failed the whole pack." He looked at me, eyes wet. "So I focused on you. The only family I had left."
"Uncle Miles, where are you? Can we call? I need to tell Mom you're alive. She's going to cry for days."
Miles's hands were shaking so badly he could barely type. "I'm in Cedar View. With Jackson—your cousin. He's alive too."
"Jackson?? Mom said Aunt Grace's baby would have been about college age now. She named him after Dad. Is that...?"
"Yes. That's him. He's right here with me."