Chapter 9 #2
Evelyn looks at me, smiling warmly. “And you, dear? What will you be contributing to the book?”
“Oh, you know.” I flash her a beaming smile. “Moral support.”
Evelyn pats my hand. “You do that beautifully, dear.”
Theo and I exchange a glance before heading toward the archives, his fingers brushing lightly against my elbow in a wordless good job keeping up.
I roll my eyes but don’t pull away.
The hall leading to the archives is dim, lit only by wall sconces that cast wavy shadows against the dark wood paneling.
Theo pauses in front of the door, rolling the antique key between his fingers. He glances at me. “Ready?”
I nod, and he exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that’s almost a laugh.
“I have a feeling she knows why we’re here,” he murmurs.
“She’s too sharp not to. The tea invite, the little breadcrumbs she dropped before you showed up—and now this.
” He lifts the key between his fingers, the metal glinting in the dim light.
“I think she wants us to figure it out.”
He slides the key into the lock, turning thoughtful. “Smart woman. Too smart to hand something over without knowing exactly where it’ll lead.”
The lock clicks.
But when he pushes the door, it doesn’t budge.
Theo frowns and tries again, this time with more force. The door groans against the frame, stiff and reluctant, like something is wedged underneath.
He mutters a curse under his breath.
I lean in, examining the frame. There’s damage along the edge. Subtle, but there.
We exchange a look. “This door’s been tampered with.”
I think back to what Evelyn said.
No one else had a key.
Except Victoria. And now Victoria is dead.
My mind whirls.
What the hell was she looking for?
What the hell did she find?
Something someone might consider worth killing for?
Theo presses his shoulder against the door and shoves harder.
With a final, protesting groan, it swings open.
Dust swirls in the air, illuminated by the sliver of light from the hallway. The room inside is cold, still. Dark, despite the fact that it’s barely midday, the thick, drawn curtains blocking out all the outside light.
Theo steps inside first. I follow, my pulse thrumming against the base of my throat.
Whatever Victoria was looking for, someone else was looking for it too. Or maybe they just wanted to know what she was up to?
We snoop around for a long while. The only sounds in the library are the distant ticking of a grandfather clock and the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath us.
Theo is thumbing through a stack of aging documents, his face contorted in concentration. He looks unfairly good like this—sleeves still rolled up, a thoughtful crease between his brows that I have come to find is permanent.
But I’m more distracted by the chill seeping into my fingers, making them stiff as I try to turn the delicate pages without accidentally obliterating a crucial piece of evidence.
My hands are always cold thanks to some crappy circulation issue or some other medical thing I’ve never bothered to look into.
The atmosphere in the Mayfair archives is doing me no favors.
Despite being on the main floor, it has the thick, cold air of a cellar.
My fingertips have started to turn a stark shade of white.
It’s uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t ignore for the most part.
I’m flipping through a stack of brittle, decaying pages when Theo breaks the silence. “You’re going to tear those if you keep mauling them like that.”
I shoot him a glare over the top of a crumbling document. “I’m being careful.”
“You’re manhandling them.”
I’d like to be manhandled.
I huff, setting the page down with exaggerated delicacy, then throw my hands up. “Happy now?”
He shakes his head as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Not particularly. You’re vibrating with impatience. If you combust and set the archives on fire, not only will Evelyn have my head, it will have a rather large negative impact on our research.”
I am vibrating, but it’s more so anxiety from the lingering wave of grief that threatened to bowl me over this morning. And because I’m fucking cold.
I glare at him and flip him off before moving on to the next document.
He looks increasingly pleased with himself as he reaches for his coffee.
The steam curls upward, and my eyes follow it for a second too long.
The warmth looks decadent, almost cruel in contrast to how numb my fingers feel.
I tuck my hands under my arms, pretending I’m fine. Theo eyes me suspiciously.
Giles brought us both mugs a few minutes ago, balancing them neatly on a tray that probably cost more than my car.
I downed mine the second he stepped back over the threshold and vanished like a very well-dressed phantom.
“You’re freezing.” Theo sets his papers down.
I look up, confused, just in time to catch him studying the way I’ve curled into myself. “You’re not going to be any use to me if you turn into an icicle.”
Use is a loaded word coming from him, and my brain supplies far too many interpretations.
Before I can argue, he nods toward my crossed arms. “Give me your hands.”
I hesitate, but only for a second. Apparently that’s one second too long—because he reaches across the space and takes them himself, his palms closing over mine—broad, warm.
The heat of his skin is immediate and delicious.
He rubs soothing circles on the back of my hand, then blows a breath of warm air between his palms and presses them back around mine.
It’s nothing. And somehow everything. The kind of small, wordless care that shouldn’t mean as much as it does.
We both linger, like neither of us wants to pull away, but we don’t really know what to do with the space between us now.
He clears his throat, lets go, and slides his coffee toward me. “Here. Hold this instead.”
I curl my fingers around the mug, the warmth seeping in. “I’m your cup holder now, or?”
He glances back down at the document. “Didn’t want to leave a ring on the desk.”
He is so full of shit.
It’s such a small thing. Barely anything at all. But I feel it. The way he notices. The way he pays attention.
Which is dangerous.
Because it makes me notice more of him, too. In ways that I most definitely should not be.
I clear my throat and look back down at the papers in front of me.
“You really had a hunch about this place?” I ask, desperate to redirect my thoughts.
“Yeah. That, and I enjoy lying to people.”
I glance up, amused.
Theo huffs a laugh. “Evelyn just seemed like the type to let me dig through her archives if she thought I was writing a book. She likes the flattery, the drama… and I find it entertaining.”
I shake my head. “You’re diabolical.”
“I’m efficient.”
“Same thing.”
We fall into silence, sifting through old wills, estate plans, birth and death certificates—things that should be mundane, except something feels off.
The files are incomplete, gaps where there should be more documentation, and some pages show clear signs of having been fucked with.
Words scratched out. Entire sections missing.
It’s sloppy, but not sloppy enough to be accidental.
I’m elbows-deep in file folders when Theo lets out a startled breath. He’s crouched near the bottom drawer of one of the metal cabinets, holding a rolled sheet of yellowing paper.
“What is it?” I ask, standing to peer over his shoulder.
“Blueprints,” he says, carefully unrolling the paper across the long table beside us. “Of the compound. Dated almost fifty years ago.”
I lean in, dusting off the corner with the back of my hand. The main house is there, drawn in stark, fine lines—its wings, its cellar, the detached structures like the barn and greenhouse. But something’s off.
“Wait,” I point to a series of narrow, almost imperceptible lines etched beneath the structures. “What are these?”
Theo traces one with his finger. “They’re tunnels.”
For a second, I don’t respond, my eyes tracking the movement of his hand along the page. “Tunnels?”
“Underground. Look—there’s a corridor running beneath the main house, and branches leading out to the east guest house, the old garden shed, even the barn.
” He glances up at me, and I can already see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
“That would explain everything. Why no one was ever caught on security footage. How someone could move between rooms without being seen. I’d bet every damn dollar I have that the door I found last night leads straight to them. ”
I eye him suspiciously.
“I was snooping around last night while you were asleep,” he says, guilt creeping through.
“Couldn’t sleep. Ended up near the west hall, by an old service corridor.
There’s a door at the end. I thought it led outside because there was a draft, but it was locked.
Before I could try to pick it, Giles materialized out of thin air like a fucking poltergeist.” He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Figured he just didn’t want me snooping.
I didn’t think much of it until now. That draft might not’ve been from outside.
It could’ve been air moving from underground. ”
I make a note to sleep with one eye open tonight—partly out of caution, mostly because I’m irrationally jealous he’s been sneaking around playing detective without me.
I stare at the blueprint, something cold blooming in my gut. How was this missed? “I guess they didn’t need to mess with the security system.”
Theo’s jaw is tighter than I have ever seen it, which is no small feat.
I run my fingers along one of the tunnels on the blueprint, and a chill creeps down my spine. “No wonder the timeline never made sense. Someone’s been using these for years to manipulate the story. The narrative. The evidence.”
Theo looks at me. “And they probably thought no one would ever find this.”
“They almost got away with it,” I say.
But they didn’t. Not completely.
Not yet.