Chapter 26 Sorcha
Sorcha
“Hello?” I say, feeling like an idiot with the guys watching me like the phone might blow up.
“Library.”
That’s all they—a distorted voice—say and hang up.
I lick my lips and do the same.
“Well?” Axl demands.
“All they said was ‘library’.”
“That it?”
“The place where Liam Ahearne found you,” Cillian growls, still not over this, apparently.
“This has to be the executor,” Ciar says, all business. “Who, it seems, is Emma… whatever her last name is…” He gestures vaguely to Emma’s desk.
“Yeah, what is her last name?”
Axl sighs. “Ryan.”
I glance up at him sharply. “Are you joking? And you didn’t think this was relevant when we were talking about Mickey Ryan this morning?”
“It’s a common surname in Ireland,” he states. “And honestly, I had other things on my mind.”
I roll my eyes but let him off the hook.
It’s all true, I just wish we had made the connection earlier.
“Let’s go,” I say and stride off, bursting through the doors of the Admin building and out into the gloomy morning.
Making our way across campus to the old library, feeling the weight of what we just left behind.
My boots splash through puddles as we cut across the quad, and I’m hyperaware of every eye that tracks our movement.
Word hasn’t spread yet, but it will. Bodies have a way of making themselves known.
The library looms ahead, the Gothic arches and gargoyles leering down from the roofline.
It’s one of the oldest parts of the campus, along with the chapel.
It’s foreboding against the grey sky as we approach and push the doors open.
Filing in, we see it’s busy, like any normal day.
I stop in the circular entrance hall and look around at the stacks, the people, the staircase leading to several floors above. Nothing seems out of place.
I scan the room again, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Nothing jumps out as wrong, but everything feels wrong. The air is too still, the quiet conversations of students studying too normal.
“Miss Gannon?”
My head snaps to the side, and I see the librarian holding up an envelope. “Yes,” I say, going over to her.
“Here,” she says, handing it to me.
“What is it?” I ask, even though it’s pointless.
She shrugs. “It was left for you.”
Nodding my thanks, I take it, stepping back towards the guys.
I rip it open and pull out a map, hand-drawn in intricate detail on yellowing paper.
I study the map, tilting it towards the light filtering through the stained-glass windows.
The paper feels ancient under my fingertips, fragile enough that I’m afraid it might crumble if I grip it too hard.
The ink is faded but still legible, showing a map of St. Bart’s, but not as we know it today. The original layout, I’m guessing.
“What is it?” Ciar asks, looming over my shoulder as Axl snaps a picture of it with his phone.
Before I can answer, a loud alarm echoes through the library.
“What is that?” I shout, clapping my hands over my ears, map still in my hand.
“Lockdown protocol,” the librarian says, bustling over all efficient and calm. She passes us to slide the massive iron bar over the double doors of the library and clicks the huge padlock in place, actually locking us in.
“Wait! What is going on?” I ask, striding forward, but Ciar pulls me back.
“Smythe,” he whispers in my ear over the noise of the alarms. “Someone found him.”
I freeze. “And we were just in there.”
“Yep.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck is right,” Cillian says, but takes my hand casually and pulls me towards a table with four chairs around it.
We each take a seat, silent and calm. Or at least the guys are calm.
I’m panicking. I touched Smythe’s chair.
My fingerprints will be on it. I’ve already escaped being arrested once already this term, but there is no Cian to save me now.
I just have to hope that my new fil will take it upon himself to rescue me if I’m hauled off to the local jail on suspicion of murdering the VC.
I force my breathing to stay even, but my palms start to sweat as I replay the scene as I pushed the chair around to face the guys.
The alarms cut off suddenly, leaving the library in a deafening silence.
“Stop spiralling,” Axl murmurs. “We’ll handle it.”
“Handle what? The fact that my prints are on his chair near his fucking dead head?” I hiss.
“You were summoned there,” Cillian points out, his blue eyes scanning the library like he’s cataloguing exits. “Emma called you over the intercom. Everyone heard it.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t explain why I was behind the desk, touching Smythe’s chair after he died and that I didn’t tell anyone!
” I whisper furiously. It’s all right for them, they didn’t touch shit, and their daddies will be along to save them from whatever legal manure they find themselves in.
Me? I’m alone. Marquess Rhodes won’t fucking touch this, even for his brand new daughter-in-law.
I’m doomed.
“Focus on the map,” Ciar says, his massive frame blocking me from view as he leans forward. “That’s what we’re here for.”
With shaking hands, I nod and spread the yellowed paper on the table, smoothing out the creases carefully. The others lean in, and I study the intricate lines and symbols. It’s definitely St. Bart’s, but older, with buildings that no longer exist as they were marked in faded ink.
“The chapel,” Axl says, pointing to a building on the map and then tracing his fingers down the sketched lines that look like they possibly lead underground. “Makes sense. It was here first.”
I trace the lines with my fingertip, following the path that snakes down from the chapel. “Underground tunnels,” I murmur. “But where do they lead?”
“X marks the spot,” Cillian says, pointing to a small cross drawn in the centre of what appears to be a chamber beneath the chapel.
My stomach flips. This is it. This is what Alex made me and Axl get married for. But we still don’t have a fucking clue what is down there. It could be a plastic water pistol for all we know. Okay, doubtful given the timeline, but still.
“We need to get there,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s impossible. The library doors are locked, the alarm is still blaring, and outside those stained-glass windows, I can hear shouting. The Garda, probably. Coming to investigate Smythe’s murder.
“Not happening right now,” Axl says, photographing the map again from different angles. “We wait this out, then we move.”
“What if someone else gets there first?”
“They won’t,” Ciar says with absolute certainty. “Because no one is supposed to know about this except Alex, and now us.”
“Yeah, supposed to,” I mutter. “Emma fucking knows, obviously.”
“Okay, point taken. But she could’ve taken it before now. She’s been working here for years.”
I stare at the map, my mind racing. Ciar’s right. Emma has had access to this place for God knows how long. If she wanted whatever’s down there, she could’ve taken it already. “Her job is done.”
“Right.”
The library doors rattle suddenly, making me jump. Voices filter through—authoritative, demanding entry. The Garda. My heart hammers against my ribs as the librarian moves to the doors, and shoves the key into the padlock.
I have seconds before I’m hauled out of here to be locked away without a key for a murder I didn’t commit, and probably for one I did.
“We need to move,” Cillian hisses, totally on my wavelength.
The map crumples slightly as I shove it into my hoodie pocket. “Where?”
Axl jerks his head towards the back of the library, where the oldest stacks tower in shadows. “There’s a secret door. Leads to some disused maintenance tunnels.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, already moving.
“Because I’ve been shagging in them since first year,” he mutters, grabbing my hand.
“Oh, that’s not cool, Rhodes,” I grunt. “You couldn’t have kept that to yourself?”
“You asked,” he replies, not looking back as we hurry deeper into the old library.
We weave through the tables, keeping low, using the stacks as cover. Behind us, I hear the librarian cooperating as the doors swing open.
“Sorcha Gannon!” A voice booms through the library. “We need you to come with us for questioning.”
My blood turns to ice. They’re here for me specifically. Not just investigating, they already think I did it. I’m fucked up the arse with a red hot poker.
Ciar’s hand lands on my back, propelling me forward faster. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
We reach the rear wall where ancient bookshelves stretch to the vaulted ceiling. Axl runs his fingers along the wooden panelling until something clicks. A section of the wall swings inward, revealing a narrow passage that smells of dust and decay.
I slip through the gap, my shoulders brushing both sides of the cramped space. The guys crowd in sideways behind me, and Axl pulls the panel shut just as footsteps thunder past.