Page 39 of From Hell

Someone from this Foundation drives the car that followed me to the cemetery, and I will find out who.

Dusty tomes sit on rows and rows of glass shelves between salt-stained, cracked, and repaired brick walls. There’s a metal table with several chairs at one end, with a strip of green banker’s lamps down the middle. Books are open in front of one seat, like someone recently was down here, sitting, reading, filling their heads with all this forgotten lore.

A thrill sparks in the base of my stomach as I hurry through, eyes falling on the titles and consuming them, fingers tracing the spines. One section has the same book over and over, but only the years stamped in gold are different. I recognize the guest book they made me sign tonight and when I came here for the frat party all those years ago.

Next to the shelves are filing cabinets containing paperwork but nothing relating to any of the cars the club owns and who drives them.

I’m about to leave when the sight of the guest book for the year of the party stops me dead. Bile burns the back of my throat like acid. Slipping the heavy tome off the shelf, I rifle through it, my heart thumping inside my chest as I scan dates and times.

The day of the frat party has a lot of names, from the early morning to the early evening. Some are easy to read, but some of the handwriting is illegible. My breath catches, and a lump wedges in my throat when I see Molly’s name in her own hand, leaping out of the page at me. Just seeing her messy scrawl makes my eyes blur with hot tears.

A noise at the front of the archive, like someone twisting the handle, trying to see if it’s unlocked, has me almost dropping the book. Then the door swings open slowly, so I duck down, crouching at the end of the shelf with the book tucked against my middle. My chest is a rapid symphony of my beating heart and my lungs hyperventilating.

There’s nowhere to escape.

A pause.

A beat of silence.

And then the person walks in.

They walk purposely to the end of the shelves, heavy shoes pounding the stone floor. The person stops when they get to where I’m hiding and then sighs, a small chuckle, deep and rumbling, making the hairs stand up all over my goosed skin. “You’re entirely visible, you know. The shelves down here are made of glass,” he says in a low voice, not loud enough for me to recognize him.

But it sounds like Jaxon.

My racing heart does a little flip, and embarrassment surges through me—as does a little fear trickling down my rigid spine.

“Simmons is on his way. There’s an alcove further down behind the history section. I suggest you move to it.”

I’m frozen in place until I gather enough courage to peer around the shelves, but he’s gone, leaving the sound of his footsteps reverberating on the polished stone as he exits the room. Only when the door closes and the lock turns do I shift, shoving myself into one of the dark alcoves and praying no one finds me.

But someone found me. And then, he helped me. Why?

A ball of tension gnaws in the pit of my stomach. Especially when no one returns. Jaxon has probably locked me down here and has gone to get security. Nola might come and let me out, but what if they found her, too? I take out my phone and check my messages, the face of my phone illuminating my small corner of the darkness for a brief few seconds. None. There’s no signal down here.

Fuck.I close my eyes, breathing deeply to eliminate the acrid taste stinging the back of my mouth, and tuck my phone away.

All I can do is wait.

Eventually, voices resound outside the room. I squeeze tighter into the alcoveheordered me into when the door unlocks, and Simmons, talking loudly, walks in. I can spy on him from where I am, silhouetted again by the garish green glow of the banker’s lights.

“I don’t care how this looks, just deal with them. Pay them off. Isn’t what the fund is fucking for?” He looks around for something and spots it on the table. “Just deal with it. Dempsey has done your dirty work. You do the fucking rest.”

Stalking over, he hangs up, grabs the notebook on the desk, and slips it into his front pocket. God must hate me because my phone gives a little buzz at that moment.

I’m not breathing as he pauses and looks back.

Dread has my lungs in a vice, and it’s not letting go.

He turns and takes a step—

All the blood in my veins turns to ice.

“Father,” Jaxon’s smooth voice cut through the gloom. “I have something to talk to you about.”

Simmons huffs as he paces further away. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, Sir. It can’t.”