Page 10 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

T he low hum of the elevator echoes as I ride up to the newest and grandest Blackhollow Industries office building from the parking lot.

The building is a marvel of modern architecture, designed by the renowned architect Jonathan Graines, with a price tag rumored to exceed half a billion dollars.

Its sleek frame stretches high above the Boston skyline, a towering testament to the company’s stature and Damien Blackhollow’s unrelenting ambition.

In my hand is the thick file folder Mark gave me with the name and contact info for Alan Jefferson, the office manager of the building.

Alan seemed like a nice enough man on the phone, and our call regarding my obtaining the security camera footage had gone smoothly, certainly more so than my back-and-forth with the museum yesterday.

Of course, that was to be expected. Alan worked for Damien, so he was more than eager to help out with anything his boss needed.

We’d made an appointment to meet at his office on the twenty-first floor.

I was hoping for a simple and straightforward hand-off and then planned to use the rest of the day to review the tapes.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step out into the expansive, ultra-modern lobby.

Expensive abstract art, bold splashes of color against crisp white walls, pairs with sleek glass and steel lines to make the space feel more like a high-end luxury hotel than a corporate office.

My heels click against the polished marble floor as I approach the security desk, clutching the folder and my tote bag.

That’s when I see him.

Damien Blackhollow, in all his glory, leans casually against the desk. He’s dressed in another designer suit, this one a dark cashmere blend that complements the color of his obsidian eyes. His expression is calm, amused.

“You’re early,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That’s good. I like punctuality.”

My pulse quickens. There’s just something about this man that makes my skin go all prickly, like I’m standing too close to an open flame.

“Mr. Blackhollow? What are you doing here?”

He pushes off the desk and strolls toward me with that effortless grace of his.

“Let’s just say I like to keep an eye on things,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving mine.

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle hint that maybe he’s not talking just about the case.

“And no need for formalities. We’re going to be working together for the long haul now. Please call me Damien.”

“Okay, Damien.” I swallow. “I’m just here to get some security tapes. I didn’t realize you’d be involved. I got the feeling during our last meeting that you weren’t all that interested in the day-to-day of your case.”

“Is that so?” He raises a dark brow, and I realize my words might be seen as somewhat offensive.

“I’m sorry,” I say, backpedaling. “I just meant—it seemed like you were busy with other important business matters and wanted us to handle as much as we could without bothering you.”

“Oh, you’re no bother.” His smile widens. “It’s just you today, correct? Quinn and the rest of the Scooby Gang are elsewhere?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Good.”

My breath catches in my throat for a second. There’s something in his tone, something warm and inviting, that momentarily throws me off balance.

“So, uh, what’s the plan?” I ask, breaking eye contact and looking around the corner, wondering where Alan is. “Is your Operations Manager on the way?”

“I’m afraid Alan won’t be joining. It’s just us.”

“Oh.”

“I hope that’s okay?” Damien’s gaze flickers over me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get whatever you need today.”

He starts walking down the long hallway, gesturing for me to follow behind him. We step into another elevator that leads to the very top of the building and, moments later, the doors open directly into his office.

The space is breathtaking. The air is heavy with the faint scent of leather and cedar, grounding everything in quiet luxury.

Rows of bookshelves line the walls, filled with old volumes—some in languages I can’t quite identify.

An enormous mahogany desk dominates the room, its surface nearly bare aside from a set of ledgers and a sleek fountain pen.

Behind it, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a sweeping view of Boston—sleek skyscrapers rising alongside historic buildings and the shimmering expanse of the Charles River winding through the city.

“I have to confess,” I say, settling into an armchair in front of his desk as Damien moves to sit across from me.

“I’m still a little confused how these tapes could exonerate you.

I wanted to ask Alan about that. He mentioned on the phone that Blackhollow Industries first broke ground on this building over three years ago, but they only keep backup files for three months. ”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Right, so then the murder weapon could’ve been dumped here anytime in the past year. For all we know, it was disposed of months ago, and then we wouldn’t see anything helpful on the tapes,” I say. “This feels a little like an exercise in futility, if I’m being honest.”

“How much did Alan tell you about this building?”

“Not much.” I shrug. “I know it’s newly opened, but construction has been ongoing for years.”

“That’s right.” He nods along. “But this building and the surrounding area have only been accessible to the public for the last two weeks, after we finished primary construction. Before that, it was heavily guarded by armed security and a high-voltage electric fence,” he explains.

“My team takes security very seriously.”

I frown, the implications sinking in. “So, you’re saying the knife must’ve been planted recently… after the building opened?”

“Precisely,” he says. “And whoever did it knows me—and my business—quite intimately.”

Something in his tone makes me pause. I stare up at him curiously.

“You sound like you know who did this?”

“Just some ideas. Nothing concrete.” He shrugs. “A man like me makes a lot of enemies.”

“Have you and Quinn talked about this yet? About your ideas ?” My heart races, a mixture of hope and excitement coursing through me. There’s a possibility I could come back today not just with the tapes but with a list of suspects too. “If you know who did this, you have to tell us.”

“Should,” Damien corrects. “Should tell you, you mean. I don’t have to do anything. ”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I chew my lip, knowing I need to play this just right. I’m good at getting what I want, but I’m not used to working with a man like Damien. “It’s just that this could be huge for your defense…”

“Perhaps.” Damien’s expression closes off, the cool mask of indifference sliding back into place. “But it’s not my job to find suspects to clear my name. It’s yours.”

I take a step closer, frustration and curiosity warring within me.

“We’re your legal team—not miracle workers,” I say. “Yes, it’s our job to defend you to the best of our ability, but we can’t do it without your help. If you know something, why wouldn’t you?—”

“Careful, James,” he says, interrupting me.

“I can see how much you want to contribute to this case. I’m not so self-involved to believe it’s my wellbeing you’re concerned with, per se, but I recognize ambition and drive when I see it.

Good traits, to be sure, when kept in check.

But don’t let your overeagerness cause you to overstep. ”

I bite my lip again and remind myself I’m just the lowly junior associate on this case. He’s right, I shouldn’t be so bold with a client. I’m dangerously out of line.

“You’re right. I apologize for my… overzealousness.” I look down, shuffling my feet. “I just want to do a good job. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s not me I’m concerned with,” he says. “There are other forces at work here. Things in play you don’t understand.”

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the building. There’s a warning in his tone, but I’m not sure why.

“I can handle myself.”

Damien’s expression shifts, a glimmer of something dangerous crossing his features. “You may think that,” he says, his gaze boring into mine with intensity, “but if you keep digging, you may not be prepared for the consequences.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I insist, lifting my chin. “I’ve dealt with cases like this before.”

His smirk returns, slow and dark.

“You’ve never dealt with anyone like me, James,” he says. “Trust me on that.”

The words hang in the air between us, charged and potent, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. There’s an intimacy in his tone that feels out of place, almost too personal for a conversation about evidence and security tapes.

I force myself to break from his gaze and look away. “I think I’d better get those tapes now,” I say, standing. “I have a busy day ahead of me.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Damien leans forward, reaching into the sleek drawer beneath his desk and producing a slim black case containing the tapes. He hands them to me, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment, sending a chill up my arm. I clutch the tapes tightly, forcing my expression to stay neutral.

“Thank you.”

“Be careful, James.” His eyes hold a warning. “Whoever is framing me isn’t going to take kindly to you poking around.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t scare easily.”

A glimmer of admiration flashes in his gaze. “I hope that’s true.”

Tapes in hand, I turn back toward the elevator, my heartbeat quickening with each step. I should feel good about what I’ve accomplished this morning, but a tight knot has formed in my stomach, refusing to unwind. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into a trap.

Or worse, that I’m already caught in it.