Chapter Twenty-Three. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
My head jerks up at a faint creaking sound. It’s the door to the basement opening. Heavy footsteps thud, moving closer to me.
I leap up, wincing as sharp pins and needles assail my left leg. I’m in a safe space, I remind myself. No one can enter the archives unless they’re an employee with a key card.
Still, I hold my breath until Benjy comes into view. “You’ve been down here for hours,” he says. “Everything okay?”
There’s nothing overtly threatening in his tone or manner, but I can’t help thinking I’m in an isolated area with a strange man, and he’s between me and the exit.
I’m only five-four, and I’m a flighter, not a fighter.
My anxiety soars again. Did he really come down here to check on me, or does he have a darker purpose?
“Just finishing up,” I say, hating how high and squeaky my voice sounds.
“’Kay.” He turns and I follow him as we ascend the steps to the main level and step into the lobby.
See? Nothing happened, I tell myself as the adrenaline ebbs from my veins.
I used to have good instincts about people. But after I learned what Danny had done, they evaporated. When I could no longer trust the man I considered my soulmate, I guess I stopped trusting everyone.
“Sign out here,” Benjy says, spinning the iPad around again. “Don’t forget to put in the time, too.”
“Hey, some of the files were missing,” I tell him. “I found folders labeled 1964, but they were all empty.”
Benjy frowns. “That’s not good. I’ll tell my boss.”
He doesn’t seem as bothered as he should be.
“I mean, you’ve got records of everyone who had access to the boxes right?” I say, indicating the names listed above mine in the iPad. “So it could have been one of them.”
“Makes sense,” Benjy says. His lack of initiative chafes me.
Maybe it’s the frustration of running into another dead end, or my fear of returning to Betty without any good news, but the strangest thing happens; I seize an opportunity.
I scan the names on the iPad while pretending to labor over the keyboard. A man named Alex Finch came here four times recently to examine the Trimble files. The visitor prior to him came eight years ago.
Judging by the number of empty file folders, it would be difficult to sneak out all the papers. But if someone came four times, it could be possible.
I button up my coat as I leave the library, then get into my car and consider my choices.
I could go home and tell Betty her friend Ivy passed away long ago, and I can’t locate Kathleen or Helen. Or I can stop acting helpless and meek. I can try to reclaim my life despite the hand I was dealt, like Sandra Lennox did.
A spark flickers inside me, and I sense I’m at a crossroads. The decision I make now will affect the next one, and the ones after that, like the first wobbling domino in a long row.
Someone is trying to erase evidence that Betty and her friends were part of Marquis. Which means I’m living with a woman who is essentially a ghost.
If I can find Alex Finch, maybe I can learn what happened to the missing files. More important, I could begin to understand the strange, mysterious woman who took me into her home.