Chapter Thirty #2
Hovering near the desk, Clayton and I wait patiently, only able to hear one end of Harper’s conversation.
She’s loaded her fancy Bluetooth pairing app onto my phone and has linked to her implants.
That fucker could be saying anything in her head, and I’d never know.
The displeased look on my face is mirrored in Mclean’s, his fingers twitching by his side.
I raise my brow at him, a challenge clear in my voice.
“Don’t you have some cleaning to do?” I ask. Clayton elbows me, and Mclean rolls his eyes, grabbing his plastic caddy from the shelf he’d perched it on.
“Archives are down there,” he points us toward the back with a jerk of his chin. “Basement level. You’ve got an hour before I lock you in until morning.” He pauses, eyes flicking to me, then to Harper. “And for the love of Christ, don’t fuck on anything. It’s me that they’ll call to clean it up.”
“No promises,” I murmur, and he flips me off before disappearing between the shelves.
I watch him stride away, muttering under his breath about rich boys with god complexes.
A ripple rolls down my spine, but not from offense.
I relish his hatred because at least that is familiar.
Harper makes a pleased little sound, and my head whips aside, wondering what the fuck the hacker said to make her grin like that.
“I’m in. Thanks, Thiago,” Harper hangs up and hands my phone back.
I pocket it, shifting to stand over her shoulder.
The librarian’s screen stares back, illuminating the three of us hunching over it as Harper moves the cursor to the files.
I stand corrected. Maybe that hacker isn’t completely useless, but that will be the last conversation Harper ever has with him.
For all I know, he might try hacking my girl’s heart, and I already have to share it too much.
The computer turns out to be a colossal waste of time.
We comb the database until my eyes burn, Harper remaining methodical as she runs search after search.
My mother’s full name, her maiden name, initials, aliases, anything that might have been logged.
Clayton throws out suggestions, including faculty spouses, off-campus contracts, and medical leave filings.
Every result comes back clean, either scrubbed thoroughly or never existed in the first place.
With each dead end wrapped in an error message, I realize this was the exact eventuality I was trying to avoid.
An ache I was trying to suppress rears its ugly head.
My jaw tightens, bitter frustration settling in my chest. Every time I dare to hope, it’s instantly crushed with a heartache I’ve been denying for almost twenty years.
One day, my mom was there, and then she wasn’t.
That’s the cold, hard fact, and it was so much easier to hate her for it than to delve into why.
Why didn’t she come back? Why wasn’t I enough, even back then?
Blinking back to the moment, I see that Harper and Clayton are both looking at me.
“Sorry, what?” I frown. Harper shuts down the computer and stands, her fingers linking with mine.
I catch sight of my phone, which is speaker side up, whilst sticking out of her bra strap and half-nuzzled in her boobs. Lucky bastard device.
“It’s a bust, so we’re heading to the archives.” Tugging me along slightly, Harper walks slowly as if asking for permission. As if I wouldn’t blindly follow her wherever she wants to go.
We pass beneath vaulted ceilings ribbed with dark wooden beams, stained-glass windows blacked out by the night, and shelves stretching like arteries through the space. Brass lamps dot the long tables, casting low pools of light that barely touch the upper stacks.
Clayton trails close behind, a quiet gravity to Harper’s momentum.
Where she boldly advances into the unknown, he checks the exits.
Where she enters a darkened basement with no self-preservation whatsoever, his eyes track shadows, listening for sounds that don’t belong.
A quiet voice in my mind says I should be doing the same, I suppose, but I reason that I’m up front with her, ready to step in if an attack should present itself.
The basement is far colder. Cold enough that I probably wouldn’t be able to get an erection if I tried.
You get your way, Mclean. Pulling a cord near the way, bulbs flicker to life with a droning buzz that will quickly irritate me.
The room is revealed in the orange glow, longer than expected with rows upon rows of boxes stacked on tall shelving units.
Harper steps in front of me to lean on the desk before us, her ass hitting my crotch.
My dick jumps, and I stand corrected for a second time this evening.
Out of instinct, my hands close around her hips, smoothing over the tight globes of her ass before she wriggles to shake me off.
“Focus,” Harper insists, but there’s a lightness to her voice.
“I am focused,” I insist, “on you.” Biting my lip, I slide a hand between her cheeks and further south when Clayton slaps me in the chest with a pair of gloves.
His narrowed glare lingers until I sigh and back up.
From his rucksack, he pulls out another set of gloves for Harper and then himself.
They’ve been plotting all day, going over the plan repeatedly, then pulling it apart and creating contingencies.
I tug on my gloves, the latex snapping softly against my wrist.
Unlike upstairs, the basement doesn’t smell like paper and ink.
The mildew and dust are too overpowering.
Metal shelving replaces wood, boxes branded and filed with meticulous care.
Harper doesn’t waste any time, fingers brushing labels, eyes scanning dates and categories, already sorting and filtering faster than I can keep up with.
We split the work as decided at the frat house.
Harper takes institutional records and searches for donors, partnerships, and faculty affiliations.
Clayton heads for building permits and infrastructure.
I’m in charge of checking medical and pharmaceutical filings, a crumpled piece of paper burning a hole in my pocket.
Harper showed it to me at the women’s shelter first, then again this afternoon.
The document Fiona slipped to her was a hospital record from my younger years.
Following a blow to the head and subsequent stitches, I needed a blood transfusion.
It’s noted in bold by the medical practitioner that my father refused to provide blood himself, so they were forced to call in a donor.
I snorted when I first saw it, unsurprised by the outcome but confused about why Fiona thought this incident was worth noting.
I don’t even remember the incident, but that’s normal.
Even without a head wound, I have a knack for conveniently forgetting my trauma.
Therapists call it dissociative amnesia, I call it necessity.
If I were able to remember it all, I’d probably have walked off the nearest cliff years ago.
These thoughts and more start to fill my head, tumbling over each other as time passes in a blur.
The quiet becomes companionable, broken only by the soft thud of boxes opening, the whisper of pages turning.
Harper hums under her breath when she finds something interesting, a tell I’ve learned to recognize.
Clayton makes small, satisfied noises when dates line up or documents corroborate each other.
I keep pulling out documents, dismissing them almost instantly and moving on.
I’m barely seeing the words anymore when a prickle at the base of my skull creeps in.
Keeping my fingers clutched around the paper I’ve just put back, I pull it out of the box once again, looking closer.
“What is it?” Harper asks, her sixth sense perking up as well.
Lifting the entire box and shifting towards the table, I spread out the blueprint I’ve found, smoothing it with both hands.
The paper is yellowed, edges curled, but the ink is crisp.
Along the top, the title reads, Waversea Auxiliary Treatment Facility.
My pulse stutters as my brows knit together.
Since when has our family owned a treatment facility?
Spotting the address, I note that it is right here, in the town neighboring the campus.
Less than five miles from where we’re currently standing.
The facility was marked as decommissioned years ago, closed due to funding issues.
That in itself doesn’t track, as the Waverseas have more than enough money to spare.
Regardless, the medical center was sold to a shell company whose name means nothing to me.
Harper’s warmth presses into my side, Clayton flanking her to scan the blueprint with his eyes.
I watch her face as the information slots together, the way her brows draw in, the way her lips part just slightly.
No doubt she agrees that the layout is wrong for a standard clinic.
There are too many secured rooms, too much separation between said rooms, observation spaces tucked behind one-way partitions and a reinforced wing labeled simply as ‘Specialized Care.’ Whatever happened in those walls has my stomach twisting, the implications too severe to grasp.
“Was…Is this an asylum?” I breathe, all of the pretenses that I don’t care going up in smoke.
Harper doesn’t have an answer for me, but her hand curls around mine.
Reaching inside the box, Clayton pulls out a ledger of some kind, flipping through the pages.
Grunting, he sets the ledge down, revealing an activity log.