Page 13 of Alchemy of Secrets

Sprinklers had always sounded innocent to her. They made her think of childhood summers, of playing in bright green grass, of running through sprays of water on days when the sunlight took over the whole sky.

Now the sputtering noise sounded staticky, broken.

Chance cursed through the phone and repeated, “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything,” she said. “He’s dead.”

Holland’s vision darkened at the corners until all she could see was the water that continued to soak through Jake’s shirt. Or was it blood?

She hadn’t heard a gunshot. It must have been a knife. There was definitely blood pouring from his back. She didn’t dare get close enough to see a blade. But did it matter? She knew who had done this.

The Watch Man.

Holland numbly pulled her phone from her ear to check the time. 6:53. Six minutes after the time of death that the Watch Man had given Jake.

Quickly, she tried to do the math, to see if it added up. She’d been standing here at least two minutes, and she’d been lost a few minutes before then. Jake must have chased after her, and then he could have died at 6:47. Right after she’d kicked off her heels.

The Watch Man was real.

The Professor’s myths were true.

And Holland felt as if she’d fallen into a world of trouble.

She’d been chasing after the Professor’s myths with the guileless faith of a child following a breadcrumb trail, so fixated on the clues and the stories that she never paused to think about where they might eventually lead her.

“Holly—are you still there?” Chance yelled through the phone.

“Sorry… I’m here… I’m here,” she repeated. She didn’t know what else to say. She could feel her body returning to her, the water running under her bare feet, but parts of her head felt numb, unsure of what to do next.

Should she call the police? Should she try to run from the person who had murdered Jake? His blood was mixing with the water from the sprinklers, seeping to her toes. She didn’t feel safe just standing there in the growing puddle, but what if she ran into the killer?

Holland’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the phone tighter, thinking that killer was such an ugly word. She still couldn’t believe someone had murdered Jake.

Why would someone want him dead?

Then she remembered something else Jake had said.

They made it sound like a simple job.

Who were they ? What was the job? Suddenly Holland had so many questions, and if the police arrived soon, she knew she might never get answers.

While researching her thesis, she had been shocked to uncover just how many Hollywood deaths had alternate versions of what could have happened; detective work was imprecise and sometimes full of outright lies.

If she wanted answers about Jake, she was going to have to find them herself.

“Listen to me,” Chance said. “If someone is dead, if you think you’re in danger, you need to get out of there.”

“I have to go back to his apartment,” Holland said.

“Do not do that,” Chance growled. “Just tell me where you are and wait until I get there.”

But Holland couldn’t help herself. This was so much more than a rabbit hole. There was a mystery right in front of her. Holland ran up the stairs, bare feet slapping against the cold metal. “I’ll stay on the phone.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably,” she admitted.

“Don’t go in there!”

But it was too late. Jake’s door was wide open. She was in.

“Holly, please just get somewhere safe,” Chance pleaded. His voice through the phone was the only sound in the apartment.

She frantically scanned the space. Thankfully it was small, but it was dark apart from the muted TV, and it was messy.

“Please get out of there,” Chance begged.

“I’m not going to touch anything.”

This wasn’t really the sort of place where she wanted to touch anything anyway. The living room smelled like a locker room, musty and stale. The carpet was matted underneath her bare feet. Jake was kind of a slob.

No. Not Jake.

Jake didn’t exist. This became clearer the longer Holland stood in his chaotic apartment. Take-out wrappers littered his coffee table, along with piles of mail all bearing a different name.

“Axel Jorgenson.”

“Who is Axel Jorgenson?” Chance asked.

“It’s Jake’s real name. It’s on all his mail.”

“Why are you going through his mail? You need to get out of there!”

“I just…”

Holland trailed off at the sight of a glossy black folder tucked under an In-N-Out wrapper covering a half-eaten burger. Unlike the rest of the apartment, the folder was pristine, and it appeared to have a shimmering gold art deco border.

Just like the devil’s business card.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. Holland wasn’t sure what it meant, but it made her think Jake might somehow be connected to the world of the Professor’s stories, only now the thought did not excite her.

Numbly, she picked up the glossy folder. It was thin. There didn’t seem to be a lot of pages inside. She wanted to open it right away. But she didn’t need Chance yelling at her through the phone to know that hanging out in a dead guy’s apartment was a bad idea. Holland darted back down the stairs.

Jake was still motionless on the ground. Her steps faltered at the sight of him. She supposed some of the initial shock was wearing off and all this was becoming very real.

“Holland, are you still there?” Chance asked. But his voice sounded far away, and she was feeling far away as well.

Earlier, she’d felt pure terror, but now as she stood beside Jake, she felt grief slipping in.

She knew his name was really Axel, but she didn’t have the bandwidth to process the change.

In this moment, he was still Jake. And she could still remember what it felt like to kiss him, how sweet he’d been on their first date, how much hope he’d made her feel when he’d put his arm around her, and maybe none of that was real—maybe it had only been a job to him—but he’d still been a real person. He didn’t deserve this.

Holland really needed to call the police. She needed to dial 911, or scream for help, or do any of the things people did when they found someone dead.

“Chance, I have to go.”

“Holland, don’t ha—”

She ended the call.

She had every intention of dialing 911. But her eyes went to the glossy black folder clutched in her hands.

She had read enough about crimes and murders to know that when the police showed up, they’d take everything she had. They definitely would take this folder, and depending on what information the folder contained, they might take her away as well.

She couldn’t call the police until she found out what was inside of it.

The sunlight was fading, covering the complex in old VHS colors, but it was still light enough to clearly see the folder’s contents as Holland pulled it open.