Chapter 7
By the time I return to Salem’s Fall late Monday night, Residential Life has already moved my belongings into Wintermere Hall.
Apparently, finding out you’ve been living with a corpse hidden behind your dorm room walls qualifies you for an upgrade.
Wintermere Hall is the most expensive residential hall on campus, all dark wood, soaring windows, and private bathrooms. Some of the wealthiest, most important students even get their own butler. It’s also in the best location, just steps from the main campus buildings.
Naturally, the Heirs live here.
I discovered that unfortunate coincidence when I was unpacking my truck—for the third time—and moving my bags inside.
I nearly collided with Silas in the elevator.
He smelled like an expensive cologne ad for hot men with shitty personalities.
Van and Rowan had been with him, all of them dressed in their black and gold lacrosse practice gear.
All three looked at me, saying nothing, Silas’s gaze locked on the bandage around my arm for one brief, unreadable second, before they all stepped off the elevator and walked away.
They didn’t even bother to hold the door open for me.
Whatever.
I knew what they did. Even if I couldn’t prove it yet, I knew, and I’m pretty sure they knew I knew. Avoiding one another felt like the healthiest arrangement.
The next day, I wake before dawn and spend forty minutes in the gym, throwing punches at the heavy bag in the boxing area and imagining Silas’s face with every hit.
I get to Professor Nightwing’s class right as the final bell is ringing, sipping my extra-large coffee as I walk inside the lecture hall, hoping the caffeine kicks in soon.
Despite my new dorm room being quieter, nicer, and entirely free of human remains—as far as I could tell—I barely slept a wink.
Every creak sounded like someone crawling inside the walls, every footstep made me think the Heirs were coming to drag me back into the forest. When I did manage to sleep, nightmares were waiting for me.
Silver masks gleaming in moonlight. Bloody knives. Poor Eleanor’s mangled, bloody body.
Wren spots me as I walk down the aisle and gives me a big welcoming wave, beckoning me over.
I still don’t know if it’s fair to judge her just because of who she’s related to, but it definitely makes me wary.
Unfortunately, the only other available seats are directly beside the Heirs.
Silas, Rowan, and Van sit three rows ahead of Wren, occupying half the row as though the lecture hall belongs to them.
Naturally, I sit next to Wren.
“You came back,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, I’m glad you did.” She gives me a shy smile. “I shouldn’t have told you to leave. I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
She opens her mouth as if to say more, but Professor Nightwing enters the room, with Dean Whitmore following him to the podium.
“Good morning, class,” the dean says, smiling with the strained enthusiasm of a man who practices in front of a mirror.
“We are extremely fortunate to have a distinguished guest joining today’s lecture.
As many of you know, the Blackhollow Foundation has funded a significant portion of the town’s historical preservation work, including the restoration of Strega’s Hollow after the fire decades ago and the expansion of our town’s historical archives,” he says and takes a gulp of air, his throat bobbing up and down.
“It is my great honor to present a man who needs no introduction. Please welcome Mr. Lucien Blackhollow.”
A strange quiet moves through the room, the entire atmosphere changing as another man steps out of the shadows.
He moves toward the front of the room like a panther stalking prey, slow and measured, every step a calculation.
I’m immediately reminded of Silas. They have the same cold, commanding presence.
Same controlled grace. Same darkly handsome face.
He looks to be in his late fifties, but it’s the sort of age that timeless men like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise are—a number that does little to diminish the good looks and sheer magnetism of their aura.
He is tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a dark charcoal suit with no tie, his black hair swept neatly away from a face that is still strikingly handsome.
His eyes move across the lecture hall with the cool, assessing interest of someone accustomed to learning a person’s weaknesses before they realize they’ve revealed them.
This is the man ultimately in charge of recruiting my brother for his fellowship last year. My brother’s mysterious billionaire benefactor and Silas’s uncle.
“Thank you, Dean,” Lucien says, his voice smooth and confident, carrying easily through the lecture hall without a microphone. “I was told I could speak for forty-five minutes this morning. Unfortunately for Professor Nightwing, I only have ten to spare.”
A few students laugh, though most sound uncertain whether they’re supposed to.
Lucien glances toward the board where the names of the three founding families still remain visible from last week’s lecture.
“As many of you know, the town of Salem’s Fall was built by people who understood two things very well: power and ruthless survival at all costs,” he says.
“The first helped them grow and thrive. The second ensured the town and this university would be around for over three hundred years and counting—which is quite lucky for all of you.”
That earns a more genuine laugh.
“For centuries, this town has profited from our morbid history, which began with the witch trials,” he continues.
“Our thriving tourism industry has commoditized the horrors of those days into everything from tickets to our beloved Strega’s Hollow attraction to ghost tours at the Old Town Cemetery and shopping downtown on Gallows Street at our fine oddity and curiosity shoppes.
If you purchased yourself a Black Magic tea this morning at Ghoul Donuts on your way to class, you too are actively participating in this ecosystem.
” His mouth curves slightly. “This town’s survival depends on our history, and it’s the duty of all citizens of Salem’s Fall to help preserve it.
This is a large part of what we do at the Blackhollow Foundation, and we’re always looking for eager young minds to join us. ”
Lucien continues on with a brief history of the university, from its founding in the late 1600s to its evolution into a prestigious institution that attracts talented students from around the world.
My attention sharpens as he goes into details about the Blackhollow Foundation’s research grants and fellowships, like the one that brought Josh to Salem’s Fall.
“The Foundation exists to support brilliant, curious minds,” Lucien says.
“We recruit from all walks of life. People like Supreme Court Justice Alexander Cabot, Massachusetts Senator Bradford Ashcroft, and even past presidents have been fellowship alumni. Our most talented go on to do great things.”
He pauses, and for one strange moment, it feels as if he’s looking right at me. His gaze doesn’t linger long, just enough to make the back of my neck prickle. When he glances away a second later, I’m certain I imagined it all.
Why would he be looking at me, of all people? Even if he did know Josh, he doesn’t know me.
He finishes a few moments later, giving the crowd a faint but sincere smile. He isn’t a warm man, but he appears perfectly civilized and seems to have a genuine love of the town and the university.
Then I look at Silas.
His shoulders are rigid beneath his black button-down shirt, his attention fixed on Lucien with a concentration that looks less like respect and more like wary vigilance. He barely seems to breathe.
Lucien exits the room, Dean Whitmore thanking him effusively like he’d just delivered the Gettysburg Address instead of a ten-minute pep talk about Salem’s Fall. The room collectively exhales after the doors close behind them, and Professor Nightwing resumes the lecture.
“Holy shit,” Wren whispers in my ear. “That was Lucien Blackhollow.”
“I gathered.”
“No, I mean… you don’t get it.” Her eyes flick toward the Heirs. “That was Lucien Blackhollow.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than just dramatic repetition of his name.”
“He’s, like, the most important man in town. I’ve only seen him a handful of times on campus,” she says, her eyes big and wide, still watching the door like a celebrity just walked out. “I’ve never heard of him giving a lecture in class. I wonder what that was about?”
I shrug. “Maybe he wants to be more active on campus?”
I’m not sure what all the fuss is over, but I make a mental note to add Lucien Blackhollow to the list of people I want to question about Josh’s disappearance.
I have a hard time concentrating in my other classes that day—Auditing and Financial Accounting.
I’m too busy thinking about my next move.
It occurred to me last night on the drive back to Salem’s Fall that if I’m going to figure out what happened to Josh, I need to start with the reason he came here.
Vanished.
The game that caught the attention of the Blackhollow Foundation and brought Josh to Salem’s Fall in the first place.
At some point, I know I’ll need to venture back to the Ashcroft Library again, the last place I heard from Josh on Halloween morning, but I still get jittery thinking about returning after what happened.
Instead, I decide to pay a visit to Professor Theodore Pemberton, the faculty advisor who supervised Josh’s fellowship work.
If anyone knew what Josh had been working on before he disappeared, it was probably him.
Unfortunately, his office door is locked when I arrive. A printed sign taped beside it reads: OFFICE HOURS MONDAY, TUESDAY, AND THURSDAY, 10:00 a.m.–3:30 p.m.
I check the time. It’s 3:31 p.m.
“Looks like you just missed him.”