Chapter 3
The first thing I do when my alarm goes off Monday morning is lace up my running shoes and head to the campus gym.
I’d spent my weekend digging up everything I could about Silas and the Heirs, hoping to figure out a way to cross paths with them again.
The internet was full of information about their famous families, but there wasn’t much about the men themselves.
I found a few stories about the lacrosse team—they were all senior starters—and the occasional photo from charity galas or campus events, but nothing very useful.
Unfortunately, my computer skills were nothing like Josh’s.
I couldn’t hack into the university’s registry to find their class schedules or anything like that, so my best option was to go where they were likely to be.
And if there was one thing I knew about guys built like that, it was that they spent time in the gym.
I toss my backpack into a locker and climb onto the first open treadmill I see. For me, running has never been about staying skinny. It’s about staying ready. Josh used to say, Life doesn’t care whether you’re tired. If you want to survive, you keep moving.
So I do.
Three miles on the treadmill, then forty-five minutes in the weight room, moving through the same routine I’ve followed for years.
Deadlifts. Pull-ups. Bench press. Curls.
Lunges. Abs. By the time I’m ready to leave, I’m disappointed not to have seen any signs of Silas or his friends.
Perhaps the lacrosse team has its own private workout facilities.
Back at my dorm, my shower washes away the sweat but not the nerves.
Today is my first day of classes and my first real step in figuring out what happened to Josh.
After I dry off, I stand in front of the closet for several minutes before realizing I’m doing something I almost never do. Overthinking my clothes.
My wardrobe has always been practical. Jeans.
Boots. Oversized sweaters. A worn leather bomber jacket that’s been with me since high school.
Clothes meant to last, not impress. But over the weekend, I’ve learned one painfully obvious lesson.
Nobody at SFU dresses like that. Everyone here looks effortlessly polished without appearing as though they tried.
Cashmere sweaters with logos draped over shoulders.
Tailored trousers. Crisp white sneakers that have somehow never seen dirt.
Not flashy. Old money.
I’d gone into town yesterday afternoon and wandered into a tiny boutique called Moon & Wick that was tucked between an antique bookstore and an old apothecary.
The owner had convinced me to buy a deep emerald knit top after insisting the color made my green eyes look “positively enchanted.” It was the first piece of clothing I’d bought for myself in over a year.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as I pull it over my head.
It fits well, and I have to admit she was right.
The rich green hue really does make my eyes pop and brings out the copper tones in my hair, though it also makes my freckles stand out more than I’d like.
I tug on dark jeans and lace up my boots before grabbing my backpack.
If you squint hard enough, I almost look like I belong here.
A few minutes later, I arrive at Ipswich Hall, home to the history department.
Students stream along the brick walkways carrying laptops and coffee cups, greeting one another.
The lecture hall is already half full by the time I walk through the double doors.
I eye the room, looking for a place to sit when someone near the middle raises a hand, beckoning me over.
Wren.
She smiles and gestures toward the empty seat beside her. I make my way down the aisle, sliding into the chair, grateful to recognize a friendly face.
“Enjoying your first day?” she asks.
“So far, so good.”
I learn a little more about her while we wait for class to begin. She tells me she’s studying museum conservation and working nearly thirty hours a week through the university’s work-study program. I tell her I’m finishing my accounting degree through an exchange agreement with Northeastern.
The bell rings and the professor, a silver-haired and impeccably dressed older gentleman in a tweed jacket, strides toward the head of the lecture hall. He sets down a stack of worn, leather-bound books on the podium and smiles as the room quiets.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, opening his notes. “I’m Professor Nightwing. Welcome to Foundations of New England Institutions.”
He pauses as the classroom door opens once more. Every head turns as the three Heirs walk in. A group of students in the front row immediately gathers their things and moves without being asked. Once the Heirs have settled into their seats, the professor resumes.
“As I was saying, welcome in,” the professor says.
“For those of you who are seniors, congratulations. This is likely the final general education course standing between you and graduation.” A few people chuckle.
“I know what many of you are thinking. Why are business students, engineers, pre-med, and English majors all sitting in the same history class?” He picks up a piece of chalk and turns toward the blackboard.
“Because if you’re going to spend four years at Salem’s Fall University, you should probably understand the institution that’s about to put its name on your diploma. ”
Three names appear in neat block letters on the blackboard.
BLACKHOLLOW
ASHCROFT
HAWTHORNE
“These three names are impossible to ignore. Once you start looking, you’ll see them everywhere around campus and in town,” Professor Nightwing continues.
“Scholarships. Research grants. Endowed professorships. Entire wings of hospitals. If you’ve lived anywhere in New England, you’ve probably encountered at least one of these names. ”
My eyes drift toward the front of the lecture hall where the Heirs sit.
Silas has one arm draped over the back of his chair, eyes half closed as though bored.
Rowan is flipping idly through the syllabus while Van appears more interested in whatever is happening on his cell phone screen than the class.
Professor Nightwing taps the first name with the chalk.
“The Blackhollows built their fortune in venture capital and cutting-edge technology. They’re probably the most recognizable of the three families, thanks in part to their large corporate footprint and their generous philanthropy.
” He nods toward the windows overlooking campus.
“If you’ve ever been treated at the state-of-the-art Blackhollow Wing at Boston Children’s Hospital or visited the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum, you’ve benefited from Blackhollow donor generosity. ”
There isn’t a flicker of reaction from Silas.
“The Ashcrofts made their fortune in newspapers and broadcast media before becoming one of the country’s most influential political families,” Professor Nightwing says, moving on to the second name.
A few female students sneak admiring little glances at Rowan. He notices, offering them an easy grin.
“And finally, the Hawthornes.” The professor pauses.
“The Hawthornes have long been associated with defense and strategic security. They built railroads. Controlled shipping routes. Founded private security firms. For more than three centuries, if there was dangerous work to be done somewhere in New England, odds are a Hawthorne was involved.”
Van smiles coldly at that, proud of his heritage.
“Together, these families transformed what began as a small settlement into a bustling center, where they founded one of the most prestigious universities in the country.” Professor Nightwing sets the chalk down.
“Their descendants continue to sit on the Board of Trustees at Salem’s Fall University, funding research and shaping the future of this institution. ”
A student near the front raises his hand.
“My roommate said there used to be another founding family. Is it true?”
Professor Nightwing sighs dramatically. “It never fails. Every year, at least one student asks about that,” he says, leaning against the edge of his desk.
“Officially, university records recognize only three founding families. Unofficially…” He shrugs.
“Salem’s Fall has accumulated more legends than most towns. ”
“So they did exist?” a girl behind me asks. “What happened to them?”
“No one seems to agree.” The professor begins pacing slowly across the front of the room.
“Some accounts claim the family line simply died out. Others insist they left Salem’s Fall under mysterious circumstances.
” He pauses. “As historians, our job isn’t to decide whether legends are true.
Our job is to ask why people continue telling them. ”
Professor Nightwing picks up a remote.
“Now,” he says, “let’s move on to something we know with absolute certainty did happen.
” He clicks to the first slide, and an image fills the projection screen at the front of the classroom: women standing before crude wooden gallows in a crowded village square.
“The infamous Salem’s Fall witch trials that took place right here in the late seventeenth century. ”
For the next forty minutes, he walks us through the witch trials—religious hysteria, political rivalries, property disputes masquerading as accusations of witchcraft.
He talks about how quickly the courts lost control of it, how the mobs at places like Strega’s Hollow didn’t always wait for a verdict before deciding someone’s fate themselves.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it, the persecution stopped being a shameful chapter the town wanted to forget and became the foundation it was built on.