Devil's Whisper Chapter 114: Unmasking the Truth

Clark took a shaky breath, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room as he weighed his words carefully. He knew that what he was about to say could either dig his grave or buy him a chance to walk away with his life and reputation intact.

"Look, I'm already putting my neck on the line by telling you this," Clark began, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and resignation. "If Jim finds out I spoke to you, I’m done. Finished. My membership with The Watchers is as good as revoked. But I swear on everything, what I'm telling you is the absolute truth—there's no Lowan Box registered in the national identity card system. If he exists, then he's operating under an alias."

Jason and Kate exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Jason exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening as he processed Clark’s words.

"Alright," he said. "So, based on what The Watchers believe, Lowan Box is an ex-member of the Pathway of Ascendants. And according to them, he's the one who murdered Ryder and Sasha because they defected from the cult and began publicly condemning Satanism. That about right?"

Clark nodded. "Yes. That’s exactly right."

Jason folded his arms across his chest, studying Clark like a puzzle missing its final piece. "Do you know about Juan Luu?" he asked suddenly.

Clark blinked, thrown off by the question. "Who’s Juan Luu?" he asked, his forehead creasing in confusion. "Never heard that name before."

Jason scrutinized him closely, his eyes narrowing behind the mask as he hunted for any flicker of deception—a telltale twitch, a fleeting glance, anything to betray a lie. But Clark’s expression held steady. The man was telling the truth, and that fact gnawed at Jason.

“Alright, next question,” he said. “If Lowan Box really did murder Ryder and Sasha because they were speaking out against Satanism, then why would he kill Jonathan Miller and Pauline Miller?”

Clark’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as recognition flashed across his face. “You mean investigative journalist Jonathan Miller?” he asked, his voice quickening with a mix of surprise and curiosity, as if the name alone pulled him out of his fog of fear.

“That’s the one,” Jason confirmed with a curt nod, his posture unyielding, the revolver still a cold shadow in his grip.

Clark scoffed lightly, shaking his head with a faint, dismissive smirk. “Come on, everybody knows Jonathan Miller died in a car accident. That’s public record.”

Jason exchanged a look with Kate, a brief but charged glance that cut through the dimness. Her breath caught as their eyes met, her heart thudding with the weight of what Clark didn’t know—what The Watchers didn’t know. Jonathan Miller’s death hadn’t been an accident, but a murder, cold and calculated, carried out by the same killer who’d left Sasha’s hands severed in the sand.

Kate’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve, the plastic gloves crinkling faintly.

Jason leaned forward slightly. “Get me a sketch of Lowan Box.”

Clark’s mouth opened, a protest forming on his lips, but Jason cut him off before a single word could escape.

“And don’t bother lying,” he warned, his eyes glinting with a cold certainty, “because I already know you have it. So, let’s not waste each other’s time.”

Clark exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface as his composure frayed. His gaze flickered between the masked figures, a trapped animal sizing up its cage, before finally settling on Jason with a resentful glare.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the words hissed through clenched teeth. “I don’t know how you figured all this out, but if Jim and I had even the slightest idea that someone was watching us, neither of us would have ever mentioned The Watchers or the jobs we’ve been assigned.” He rubbed his temple with a shaky hand, stress and regret etched into every tense muscle of his face, his skin pale and slick with sweat in the dim glow. After what felt like an eternity, he gestured toward a cluttered book rack in the corner of the room, its shelves sagging under the weight of papers and trinkets. “It’s in the gray file,” he admitted, his voice a reluctant surrender.

Without hesitation, Kate moved across the room, her steps swift and silent despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She located the gray-colored file wedged between a stack of dusty novels and a chipped mug, her gloved fingers brushing its worn edges as she pulled it free. Flipping it open, she found exactly what they were looking for—a detailed sketch of a man’s face, rendered in sharp pencil lines. The features were striking: a angular jaw, hollow cheeks, eyes that seemed to bore through the page with a quiet menace. She studied it briefly before crossing back to Jason’s side.

Jason took the file from her, his fingers brushing hers through the gloves in a fleeting, electric touch that sent a shiver up her arm. He opened it, letting his gaze linger on the sketch for a few beats, then returned to Clark. “One last question, I want you to answer me with absolute precision and accuracy. No half-truths, no stalling—just the facts. Understand?”

Clark swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he nodded, his defiance reduced to a flicker beneath the weight of Jason’s stare.

Jason took a step closer, his presence looming over the bed, filling the room with a quiet, unyielding force that made Kate’s pulse race anew. “Why is a simple poetry book, the Rubaiyat, so important that an entire cult was formed just to protect it?” he asked, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the stillness. “Who were they protecting it from? And most importantly—what kind of power does it hold?”

Clark’s breath hitched slightly. He could feel the weight of Jason’s stare, pressing down on him like an iron grip. His pulse pounded in his ears as he realized there was no way out. No more dodging, no more bluffs. He had to tell them everything he knew.

He drew a deep breath, let it settle in his chest, and then finally, he spoke.