Page 12 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

I lie awake, tossing and turning all night.

I can’t stop thinking about Mark’s death and the cryptic, threatening email that followed.

Can’t shake the image of Mark lying crumpled on the street, dead.

My bedroom feels too small, the air too thin, like the walls are closing in.

I try to steady my breathing, fear echoing in my head.

Mark didn’t just die. Someone killed him.

And I could be next.

Even when morning comes, the sunlight of a new day streaming through my bedroom window, I don’t feel any better.

Quinn told me to take the day off, but the last thing I want is to sit at home, alone, and let my anxiety and fear fester.

Staying home all day would only mean facing the empty hours and filling them with what-ifs and unanswerable questions.

Instead, I feed Lucky and make breakfast for Madison, and then decide to make my way to the office where at least I can be surrounded by the mundane normalcy of files and paperwork.

I’ll feel safer within the high-rise walls of Whitehall & Rowe, where I can pretend, if only for a few hours, that things haven’t fallen completely off course.

I step off the elevator and pass by Mark’s office on the way to my own.

The door is ajar, the light still on, as if waiting for his return.

His workspace looks just as it did yesterday, when he was still alive.

His “Legal Genius at Work” coffee mug still sits half-full, papers strewn across the surface in disarray.

Whatever he was working on, now left unfinished.

I feel a heaviness in my chest at the sight. Something about it seems painfully sad.

I pause as a folder on the corner of his desk catches my eye.

“BLACKHOLLOW” is written on the top of the file in big blocky letters.

I should probably keep walking, but something about the folder calls to me like a moth to a flame.

I peek around the corner—his secretary, Penny, isn’t in.

Perhaps Quinn gave her the day off, too.

Before I can lose my nerve, I sneak inside Mark’s office and beeline straight for his desk.

Quickly, I sift through the folder and his files, the rustling of paper sounding too loud in the otherwise silent building.

Part of me feels guilty, like I’m crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, rummaging through a dead man’s papers.

Except… one could argue they aren’t really Mark’s papers.

Technically, all attorney work product and client files belong to the client—or at the very least, the firm, since the case is still ongoing.

Besides, these papers will ultimately make their way to Quinn’s desk and then mine anyway.

As I read through the files, a pattern starts to emerge: articles printed from old archives about secret symbols and shadowy cults, notes on ritualistic practices and grisly sacrifices, and references to the dark history of nearby Salem’s Fall—a place steeped in mysticism, infamous for the witch trials that took place there hundreds of years ago.

Mark had clearly been delving deep into the occult aspects of the case, and the more I read, the more I realize this angle was something he took seriously.

His notes are excellent, incredibly thorough.

Mark was a shitty person, but I can’t deny he was an excellent lawyer .

One symbol in particular catches my eye: a curved spiral with jagged lines radiating outward, intersecting with an inverted pentagram.

Mark has drawn it multiple times throughout his notes.

It’s the same mark that was carved into Vivienne Van Buren’s body and written in her blood on the walls and floors of the bedroom where she was found.

On one of the pages, underneath the symbol, Mark has scribbled the words: “The Mark of the Veil – Blood Rite ritual – The Order of the Veil.”

I step back, my pulse quickening.

The Mark of the Veil? Blood Rite?

What the hell is that?

“Woodsen? What are you doing?” Quinn asks, suddenly appearing in the hallway and startling me so badly I drop the folder. “I told you to take the day off.”

“I know.” I swallow hard, like a student in trouble with her favorite professor. “But my head wouldn’t stop spinning. I needed a distraction.”

He walks over to me, his hand settling on my shoulder, sending a wave of warmth through me. His expression is a mix of concern and exasperation, but underneath, there’s something softer. “It’s been a rough couple of hours,” he says. “You need time to process.”

“I’m fine,” I say, though the lie rings hollow even to me. “I just need to?—”

“No arguments,” he says, cutting me off and grabbing my elbow. “Come on, you’re getting out of here, at least for a few hours. I’m taking you to breakfast.”

“Quinn, really, I’m fine?—”

“You are not fine, no matter how many times you say it out loud. Let’s go.”

There’s a finality in his tone that makes it impossible to refuse. Quinn Alexander Kensington is not the kind of man you say no to when he insists on something. I grab my coat and follow him out.

I’m surprised when Quinn walks past the bustling coffee shop near the office and stops instead in front of an expensive French patisserie tucked away in a quiet corner a few blocks away.

It’s the type of place with warm brick walls, soft lighting, and tables draped in crisp white linens.

I’ve walked by it many times before and have always wanted to try it, but you need reservations months in advance.

Plus, the prices on the menu are not for the faint of heart.

Quinn holds the door open for me, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I step inside.

The ma?tre d’ greets him like an old friend and, despite the long line of people waiting to be seated, he escorts us into the dining room right away and finds a spot for us next to a beautiful, old-fashioned fireplace.

Quinn helps me into my chair and takes the seat across from me, his long legs brushing against mine under the table.

The waiter approaches, a polished young man with a crisp white apron. Before I can say anything, Quinn holds up a hand. “Black coffee for the lady, no sugar. And I’ll have an espresso.” Then, as if an afterthought, he adds, “And please bring us a plate of your blackberry croissants. Thank you.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter nods at Quinn. “I’ll return shortly with your drinks and pastries,” he says and leaves.

I blink at Quinn, surprised. “You remembered my coffee order?”

“Of course. You don’t like things too sweet.” He says it casually, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “But you’ll want to make an exception for the croissants here. Trust me.”

“This place is amazing. You’re certainly full of surprises today,” I say, trying to sound teasing, though I can feel the warmth creeping into my cheeks .

His eyes hold mine. “You have no idea.”

The delicious smells of fresh baked goods and brewed coffee fill the air as our waiter returns moments later with our order.

Quinn slides the steaming mug toward me, and the tension in my chest eases a little.

The first sip is perfect, bold and rich, just the way I like it.

I let the gentle heat seep into my palms as I reach for the plate of pastries he insisted on.

I take a bite and can’t help moaning out loud. Quinn is absolutely right. Though I’m not usually a fan of sweets, my blackberry croissant tastes like heaven.

“Good?” he asks, chuckling softly.

“Oh my God! It’s amazing.”

Our eyes lock and the moment between us feels so nice, so easy, I almost forget all about the horror of last night.

“James, tell me, how are you holding up?” he asks, leaning back, watching me with a careful intensity.

“You’ve been through a lot recently with Mark’s death.

And I know you still feel badly about the Michelle case and that forensic report…

plus, you’ve got your hands full at home with Madison and Lucky.

” His voice softens, and I realize with a pang how much he’s been paying attention to me—to my life, and not just the obvious work stuff.

I glance up, meeting his eyes. There’s something tender and caring in them that makes it hard to breathe.

“I’m managing okay,” I say slowly. “Things are better at home. Maddie’s grades are up, though I still worry about her constantly. And Lucky’s… well, Lucky. He’s the best. Always around, especially when I need him the most. Almost like he knows.”

Quinn’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Smart cat.”

“He is.” I nod along. “Smarter than most people.”

“And work?” he presses, leaning forward slightly. His hand rests just inches from mine. “How are you feeling about things? ”

I let out a sigh. “It’s just… you’re right. I do still think about the Michelle case. And I don’t want to let anyone down again. Not the firm.” My throat tightens. “And definitely not you, Quinn.”

His fingers brush against mine, just barely, but it’s enough to send sparks dancing up my arm.

“You could never do anything to let me down.”

For a moment, it feels like we’re teetering on the edge of something—something more than just a professional relationship, something I’m not sure I’m ready for. But then he clears his throat, breaking the spell.

“Eat more,” he says, nudging the plate of croissants toward me. “You’ll feel better.”

I take another pastry, more to appease him than anything else, but as I nibble on the flaky crust, I realize he’s right. I do feel better. But it’s not just the croissants—it’s Quinn. The weight pressing on my chest eases a little more with each bite, the longer I’m here with him.

“Thanks,” I say. “For this. For everything.”

Quinn smiles, the kind of smile that feels like it’s just for me.

“Anytime.”