Page 20 of What Happened on Roslyn Street? (Strode University #1)

“No need to worry. The owner is a generous man.” Laughter peels from him as he comes out from behind the counter, his hand reaching for mine again.

“I already know that to be true.”

“You haven’t even seen the best part.”

If he happens to be the killer… this is where he kills me… and I paid him to do it, technically! If he doesn’t, Margaux will do it—she’ll be pissed at me for coming without telling her.

He leads me up a set of wooden spiral stairs. I think over my regrets, and, despite my disinterest in God, I try to remember a single prayer.

The only thing I can remember is Paradise By the Dashboard Light . That won’t do.

He digs into his pockets, rummaging until he finds what he’s looking for…

Keys. They jingle before he slips them into the lock. The old wooden door opens with a click.

He steps inside, but I linger in the doorway, hoping I’ll have time to flee the shop before he catches me. Vampires may be fast, but as far as I know, witches aren’t.

I may be able to make it out alive, and with the proof, Margaux needs to finish the job.

But what if I’m wrong ? The thought nags at the back of my mind. I was wrong about him being a vampire. Do I know anything about Caldwell at all?

He flicks on a light. I peer in nervously, expecting to see what will bring my end. A room of hungry vampires. A chainsaw? No. Caldwell doesn’t seem like the chainsaw type. Maybe a single dagger. That seems more like him—it’s classic.

What I see is nowhere near as sinister. A little apartment comes into view—reminiscent of Poppy’s. It’s even more cluttered, with dust on the shelves and sewing projects strewn about.

The sitting room is small, combined with a kitchen, and in the corner, there’s a tiny, dusty piano. Sunlight leaks into the room in rainbows, reflecting from crystals in the window.

After a moment of hesitation, I step inside, watching Caldwell. “Is this where you live?”

“Not anymore. This is where my mother lived and where I spent my summers. I haven’t had the heart to clean it out yet.” He lets out a slow, sad sigh. “My room is that way.” He nods to the long corridor.

“I get what you mean. I haven’t—” I almost tell him about Poppy. It nearly comes out that I haven’t even driven past her street since she died. “I mean to say, it’s beautiful. I guess vintage books aren’t the only trinkets she collected.”

Little knickknacks and art pieces litter the space to prove that.

He shakes his head. “She was a very whimsical woman. It wasn’t about the age of the pieces; it was how unique they were.

Collections were her favorite form of creative expression.

I think that’s why she loved the shop so much.

She got to fill it with the little things she loved, but… I don’t have the same eye.”

“She wouldn’t want you to run it the way she did,” I say. “You’re meant to run it like you . Being you is enough. Fill the space with classic horror and… maybe a nice rack of wine. Wine goes well with books.”

Our eyes lock. Something like understanding flows between us. I can relate to pressure from parents better than most. I’m here to save Poppy, but when I think of my parents, I wonder if any part of me wants to run away from them—into the world of vampires and witches—running to their greatest fear.

I don’t imagine his mother applied the same pressure, but a soothing energy flows between us.

We understand each other in one small way.

“I didn’t bring you here for sympathy,” he says, smiling subtly. “I wanted to, um…” He gestures to the piano, his expression shifting into a bashful one.

I lift a brow. “You play?”

He nods.

“Oh, then I insist!” I maneuver to the piano before he can argue, sitting off to one side of the bench. “Show me what you can do.”

He was the one to mention playing, but he sighs as he drops onto the bench next to me. Caldwell flexes his fingers, his eyes closing as if he’s summoning a spirit.

When his fingers glide across the keys, I wonder if he reached the spirit world, after all. The music swells through the room, soft at first and then increasing into a dramatic waltz. It feels alive.

My attention is stuck on him, but he pays me no mind. His eyes are shut, losing himself in the music, leaning in as the song builds to heights I couldn’t have imagined.

He plays without a single sheet of music in front of him, either by memory or a song of his creation. I don’t recognize the tune, but I’ve never listened to classical music. At the moment, I’m a fan.

Visions of him waltzing around a ballroom fill my mind, clad in a dark gray suit… and I’m on his arm. This is where he belongs, I realize, not in the sweaty nightclub.

I was right about him all along.

There are no words until the music fades away. He presses a few gentle, final keys.

“Caldwell…” I scoot closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “That was beautiful. I had no idea you could play like that.”

“I’m at Strode on a music scholarship,” he says as if to explain away his talent. “I know you assumed academic, but?—”

“If you’re studying, it is academic, in a way.”

“Yes. I suppose it is.” His eyes finally meet mine. A soft smile rests on his lips.

“Studying music instead of math or science doesn’t make you seem any less intelligent, if that’s what you thought… ”

He shrugs sheepishly. “No, you’re right. I know that.”

“Thank you for sharing this place with me. I know this means something to you, and it does to me, too. The music, the stories about your mom… I get it.”

“It does.” He bites at the inside of his cheek. “After the club, I wanted to show you more of me. I worry I gave you the wrong impression that evening. I’m happy to go slow.”

“I know.” I smile softly, squeezing his shoulder. “I never doubted it.”

None of this is real, but these words are honest. Of everything I hate about Caldwell and everything wrong with him, he has never made me feel rushed. It’s likely because his interest in me is fake—but God, it feels so real right now.

“Now, for the grand finale…” He stands, offering me a hand. “I’ll show you my childhood bedroom.”

“Oh?” I lift a brow, taking his hand. “I thought we were going slow.”

“We are.” He leads me down the darkened hallway.

I should be afraid, but the fear is gone now. Where did it go?

“Keep your mind out of the gutter. There’s nothing special about my room,” he says.

When I enter, I decide he must be joking. The room is unlike any childhood bedroom I can imagine. My own is littered with posters and old video games. There’s nothing like that in Caldwell’s room.

Instead, there’s handcrafted furniture, wooden but more rustic than anything to be found at Strode. There isn’t a poster in sight, or a console, or even an old PC.

Like the rooms downstairs, the walls are lined with books. There are piles of books on the floor as if the bookshop made its way up here. His bed is meticulously made. It’s covered in dark brown sheets and a handmade quilt.

A crystal ball rests on the middle of his desk, surrounded by smaller crystals: a quartz and an amethyst, I think.

“This is where you lived as a child?” I ask, looking at him with lifted brows.

“Um… as a teenager.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Technically speaking, I stayed here when I was a child as well, but there were more… blocks. Picture books. That sort of thing.”

“I guess…” But it’s still too mature for a teenager. I gesture to the room. “Do you see why I thought you were a vampire? You seem like you were born a little, old man.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was not. My mother had a fondness for design. She found unique pieces and… well, I always liked books, like her.”

“I can see that.”

Caldwell shifts as if he’s embarrassed, glancing out the window.

Orange leaves rustle against the glass, and I move closer, pushing the curtain aside.

Outside, the streets are quiet. The sun has finally set, and something about this little place makes me feel at peace for the first time in a long time.

“I don’t hate it.” I turn to face him.

“It would be all right if you did. Like I said, it’s nothing special.”

“Maybe not to you.” I wander to the desk, my fingers brushing against the crystals. “But, to me? It’s magical.”

We stay at his apartment until the streets are pitch black. It starts to feel like I’m frozen in place. He plays more music: slow ballads that bring me to tears and then faster songs that make his fingers fly across the keys.

I play one of the few songs I know, a reminder of failed piano lessons from my childhood. He’s kind enough not to laugh at the attempt .

He shows me books and paintings, and by the end of it all… I’ve almost forgotten who I’m with.

“Let’s take my car back to Strode,” he says. “It’s late. I leave it parked in the garage. You can’t trust the rogues on campus…”

It should be ironic, but for the evening, the thought of Caldwell being the campus horror has left my mind. It’s replaced with toothless pictures of him as a child, of ballads that are stuck in my head, and of sun-catching crystals.

I let him lead me to the car.

Avoiding the cold and a late-night walk makes his offer easy to agree to, especially once we’re inside. Warm air fills the small space. I rub my hands together and place them in front of a heating vent.

Soft, classical music fills the space as we drive. It’s a comfortable quiet, the sort that feels like it belongs to good friends rather than strangers. An intimate silence.

I have to break it. I feel myself breaking down.

All the images of Caldwell come crashing together. Him leaning into the piano. His soft voice when he talks about his mother. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. Him pressing against me in the club.

And then, him draining the life from Poppy with whatever magic his mother has given him.

I hold back until we’re in the school parking lot.

My hands shake with nerves. “I have to tell you something.”

He glances at me, concerned and confused; his brows furrow. “You can tell me anything. I spent an entire evening showing you who I am, and… Tobey, what is it?”

My breath comes out in harsh puffs.

“I think…” I’ve lost my senses. I don’t know where they are. They don’t come to me as I speak in a tr embling voice. “I think you’re the killer, Caldwell. I think it’s been you all along, and…”

Where am I going with this? I shouldn’t have said anything.

Fright builds in me, rendering me incapable of speaking another word. I’m frigid to the bone.

Caldwell pulls into the parking lot, just outside my dormitory, and my heart races. I can still make a run for it. My hand moves to the door, but I’m rendered immobile. Terror thrums through my body.

He turns to me slowly, jaw tense as he looks me up and down. “Did you just confront a killer alone in his car? In the middle of the night?” His expression is severe, eyes so sharp they cut to my soul. “I’ve always known you were reckless, but do you completely lack self-preservation?”

My pulse races, and finally, I summon the strength to open the door. To my relief, it’s not locked from the inside.

“Don’t come near me!” I screech, hoping someone else will hear. “I have a stake!”

“I’m not a”—his words are muffled as I slam the car door—“vampire!”

He’s out of the car in a second. Caldwell is fast enough that he could pass as a vampire after all. He reaches for my hand.

I expect a harsh touch, but it doesn’t come. He’s gentle. It’s easy to pull away and move faster.

“Tobey!” he says, loud enough that someone may overhear. “I’m not the killer, and I know what you’re doing. I knew all along! I’m here to investigate, too.”

He knows I’m investigating?

It gives me pause, coming to a halt. My eyes are glued to the Strode crest on the nearest building. I shouldn’t believe him. I can’t afford to believe him, but…

Any strange thing I’ve found about Caldwell can be explained by his investigation—from his watch being on the scene before anyone else was there…

And his interest in me.

How could I have been wrong about so many things?

“I’m a psychic witch.” He’s standing behind me, so close I can feel his breath on my neck. “I knew this school was holding secrets, and I knew I had to be the one to stop it. That’s why I’m here, and… my visions led me to you, Tobey.”