Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Access
Becky
The hallway outside is empty.
Closed doors line one side, but the other opens to a wooden railing that runs the length of what must be the second floor, overlooking a room below.
My bare feet are silent on the thick maroon rug as I move toward it.
With my hand on the banister, I glance down into a living room with low-slung couches and polished dark wood furniture.
It’s a mess down there. Empty beer cans litter the tables, some tipped over, spilling amber liquid. Paper plates are stacked or abandoned where someone left them, bits of food clinging to the edges, not old but not fresh either.
It smells faintly sour, even from up here.
“Well,” I murmur, “this is a fraternity.”
I turn back to the hallway, where the doors are all identical, all closed. The kind that don’t invite curiosity so much as warn against it.
I go to the first one and ease it open. A bedroom. Curtains drawn, the bed neatly made, everything arranged in a way that’s impersonal. Generic, almost. Not untouched, but more like someone lived here once and then simply stopped.
I don’t step fully inside, only far enough to reach the dresser by the door. My fingertip drags lightly across the surface. When I lift it, a thin layer of dust clings to my skin. I rub it between my fingers, watching it smear.
No one’s been in here for a while.
I step back into the hallway and close the door carefully. In between this door and the next one is a gilt-framed portrait of a man. I recognize that dark hair, those dark eyes. An ancestor of Carrson, from the late 1880s, judging by his clothing and the long watch chain at his waist.
I step closer.
The paint has faded with age, the edges blurred, but his expression hasn’t.
It’s severe, unyielding. The longer I stand there, the harder it is to tear away.
His gaze holds mine until I lose sense of time, and for one strange moment, I feel like if I were the right person, or said the right words, the portrait might speak to me.
Hurry up. The thought hits hard enough to break whatever hold the portrait has on me. I jolt back, the air rushing in again, aware again of where I am and what I’m doing.
I turn to the next door. The room is identical to the first. A bedroom. The same furniture. The same air of abandonment.
I glance around, confused. I know men live in this house. I saw them at that party, but where? On another floor? Is Carrson the only one here?
I file the question away for later and go to the third door, knowing before I even touch it that this one is important.
It’s the doorknob.
Once silver, it’s been worn down by years of use, the metal beneath showing through in dull streaks of gold. I pause as I wonder how many hands have turned this. This house is over 180 years old. Generations have lived here. Did Carrson’s father open this door? His grandfather? Further back?
I brace myself for resistance, expecting the door to be locked, but the handle turns easily and the door swings open before I can push it.
Like it’s waiting.
Or…like it’s luring me inside.
I step forward, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.
It’s dim, the curtains drawn. I tug them open enough to see I’m in an office.
The center of the room is dominated by a large wooden desk.
Ornate carvings crawl across the front of it, catching the light in shifting patterns, but I don’t inspect them.
I don’t have time for that. Carrson could walk through that door any minute now.
Find me standing here, surrounded by things I was never meant to see.
I picture it, the way his expression would shift, not all at once, but slowly. The stillness that would come first, that quiet pause before anything violent follows. The way his hands would go still at his sides, then clench. The coiled anger he carries that I’ve only caught glimpses of.
My gaze goes to the door, as if expecting it to move, but nothing changes. I force myself to exhale, even as cold spreads through my stomach.
I’ve seen both sides of him. The careful way he carried me here, the steadiness in his hands when I couldn’t stand on my own, how patient he was when I was at my most vulnerable.
And the other things. The bruises. The split skin across his knuckles. The way the punching bag spins and spins. How sap leaks from the tree where the knives hit. Like it’s bleeding.
My fingers twitch slightly at my sides.
He wouldn’t hurt me. The thought comes quickly, automatically. I hold onto it briefly, then let it go.
Because I don’t actually know that.
Do I?
I give myself a small shake. I’m wasting time I don’t have. Faster now, I scan the surface of the desk—pens, pencils, everything arranged neatly—and one item grabs my attention.
A computer.
I’ve seen them before, of course. Rows of them in the campus lab, humming under fluorescent lights, screens glowing green or dull gray, while students hunch over keyboards as if they’re trying to translate a language no one’s ever heard before.
But never like this, sitting alone on a desk like it’s only meant for one person. How much would this cost? Enough that most people wouldn’t even consider it, but that’s the point, right? These aren’t normal college students.
I step closer, leaning around to inspect the back, curious who made it. I expect to find a label, IBM, maybe. Compaq. A familiar name, but there’s nothing. No branding. No sticker. No indication it was ever meant to be identified at all.
Strange. Even the lab computers have markings, inventory tags, serial numbers, anything that ties them to a place, a point of origin.
This one doesn’t.
Not only that, the shape of this computer is sleeker than I’ve seen before.
The plastic housing smoother. The keyboard more fully integrated.
Like it’s a newer, more advanced technology.
The screen is dark, reflecting a faint, distorted version of the room behind me.
I’m there too, barely visible in the glass, pale and blurred at the edges, like someone haunted.
I peek over at the door. If Carrson walks in right now, everything ends. There won’t be a warning, no raised voices or pleading for forgiveness. My stomach roils.
This is his space, his rules, and I’m already breaking them.
But when will I ever have this chance again? To be in this house, in this room, alone?
I reach forward and press the on/off button. My reflection disappears as the screen flickers to life. A low buzz fills the room. Too loud?
My gaze snaps to the door. I listen, but it stays closed. The house beyond remains quiet.
I turn back as text appears across the screen. A prompt.
C:\>
The cursor sits blinking, waiting.
I stare at it, a restless energy building under my skin. I don’t know what it wants. A name, maybe. A command. Simple enough for someone who knows what they’re doing. That person is clearly not me, but I try anyway. My fingers hover, then type the first thing I think of.
Carrson.
I press enter, but nothing changes. The cursor continues its slow, steady pulse, unimpressed. Next, I try Ashford. Then University, Congress, Senator, House, every word I can think of that’s connected to him, to history, to this place.
The cursor blinks, like it’s mocking me.
I drag a hand across my forehead as I force myself to think instead of guess. It has to be obvious. It has to matter. My gaze drifts, unfocused, past the desk, the walls, the door, until it catches on the doorknob, worn smooth from years of use.
I think about the portrait in the hall. The man with the deep, dark eyes. All the generations.
I type it in slowly:
1—
8—
1—
3—
I double-check it, not wanting to get it wrong.
1813.
The year this house was built. I remember seeing it on the sign out front when I tried to get into the party, right by the throw-up bush.
Done typing, I hit ENTER.
For one terrible second, nothing happens.
Then the screen changes. The blinking cursor disappears, replaced by a single line of text:
ACCESS GRANTED
A beat later, another line appears under it.
WELCOME, CARRSON
A thrill runs through me.
So it is his.
I pull the chair out quickly, the legs scraping against the floor, before I lower myself into it.
The cold wood presses against the backs of my thighs, startling me, and only then do I remember I’m wearing nothing but the oversized T-shirt.
The fabric shifts as I sit, riding higher than I expect, and a flicker of awareness goes through me, of skin, of exposure, of where I am.
I tug the hem down, smoothing it over my legs, more for the illusion of coverage than anything else. Then I lean closer to read the screen.
There’s a list of files under his name, arranged in a neat column. Most are generic at first glance.
MESSAGES
CALENDAR
ADMINISTRATION
SCHEDULE
ACCOUNTS
PROPERTY HOLDINGS
STATUS REPORTS
REVIEW LOG
REGISTRY
Using the arrow keys, I select the first file, then press ENTER.
I brace, preparing myself to wait. The computers in the campus lab always take forever, whirring, clicking, and grinding as if they have to process every command before responding.
Sometimes it takes long enough that people get up, walk away, and come back.
This one doesn’t. The screen instantly changes.
C:> ACCESS MESSAGES? (Y/N)
Easy enough. I click Y.
The computer makes a single soft beeping sound as the screen changes again, lines of text replacing the prompt in a clean, structured list that fills the display. At first glance, nothing about it is unusual. Messages are arranged by date.
My shoulders relax slightly as I begin to read, the pressure in my chest easing.
FROM: ADMIN Schedule confirmed for Thursday. Attendance expected.
FROM: FINANCE Quarterly review complete. No discrepancies reported.
FROM: REVIEW COMMITTEE Meeting moved to 0900. Please confirm availability.