Chapter 8
Professor Pemberton gestures toward a pair of tall wooden stools tucked against the counter of his curiosity shop, and Rowan and I settle into the seats.
The little shop suddenly feels slightly claustrophobic now that the front door is locked and the blinds are drawn.
An old grandfather clock ticks steadily in the corner while a brass pendulum swings back and forth beneath a glass case.
I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “You said you were expecting me, Professor?”
“I knew you’d show up eventually.” His expression softens with something close to sadness. “Josh’s little sister, Jackie. You look so much like him.”
For one painful second, I can’t speak. Everyone always said Josh and I had the same eyes, though his were warmer than mine and usually carried the beginning of a joke.
“You knew my brother well?” I ask.
“Well enough,” Professor Pemberton says, adjusting a stack of books near the edge of the counter before settling into a chair across from us. “So what can I do for you? I assume you didn’t track me down because you’re shopping for a nineteenth-century astrolabe.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened before Josh disappeared,” I begin. “I keep coming back to his game—to Vanished. I know you supervised his fellowship. What I never understood was why the university wanted him so badly. I know Vanished had become popular, but it was just a game.”
Professor Pemberton eases back in his chair. “How much do you know about Vanished?”
“I know the basics,” I say, and Rowan draws closer beside me, suddenly listening with more interest. “It’s a puzzle game, like Zelda or Tunic.
Players solve a mystery by working through things.
Pattern recognition, ciphers, symbol language, layered maps.
Each round of the game centers around a fictionalized storyline, but they’re all based on real-life historical mysteries.
“He started with the disappearance of the Roanoke colony. When that exploded, he made the second round about the Donner Party disaster. Then last year, he started working on a round focused on Salem’s Fall’s history. Something to do with the witch trials and local legends.”
He nods. “Did you play?”
“A little,” I say. “He sometimes had me test puzzles before he released them. I was good at spotting holes. Once the games went live, though, I was usually too busy with school and work.” Guilt presses lightly against my ribs. “I kept telling him I’d play more when life slowed down.”
I always thought there would be more time. Now I don’t know if Josh will ever complete his game or if I’ll ever get to play it.
“Josh talked about you often. You were his best tester,” Professor Pemberton says, and the words hit somewhere tender. “He said you saw patterns other people missed. He admired your mind.”
“I can’t believe your brother created Vanished,” Rowan says, leaning forward.
I blink at him in surprise.
“You’ve played it?”
“Of course.” His face brightens. “The whole campus was obsessed with the Salem’s Fall round. That first level was brilliant, the one where you had to decipher symbols from a seventeenth-century witch journal to figure out which magic ritual came next.”
Professor Pemberton smiles faintly. “That was one of Josh’s favorites.”
“I helped with that,” I say. “I still think he made the math too easy. I solved it in twenty minutes.”
“Impressive.” Admiration shines in Rowan’s eyes. “Took the guys in my dorm a whole week.”
Professor Pemberton shifts in his chair, drawing our attention back.
“What made Vanished so extraordinary wasn’t any single cipher or map,” he says.
“Plenty of people know how to create codes, but Josh understood how to make one discovery change the meaning of everything that came before it.
Players thought they were looking at simple decoration, a background detail, but then hours later they realized the entire game had been teaching them how to read it.
“Vanished became an online phenomenon because it required different kinds of intelligence,” he continues. “One player might understand colonial history. Another might recognize a cryptogram. Someone else might notice that two maps, when layered together, revealed a location.”
“Is that why the university recruited him?” I ask.
“The university saw an opportunity to study that sort of work to see if it could be used in an academic setting.” Professor Pemberton folds his hands loosely in his lap. “But Lucien Blackhollow took a special interest in the project. Anything involving Salem’s Fall tends to attract his… attention.”
“How did Josh’s work continue when he came here?”
“At first, Josh did exactly what we expected,” he replies to me.
“He built timelines, tested puzzles, and started applying them to his game. His Salem’s Fall round was supposed to revolve around the disappearances that took place during the witch trials.
A group of accused witches vanished before their executions.
The players were to determine whether they were secretly killed or whether they escaped, and if so, how and where they went. ”
“I remember.” I nod along. “When I talked to him last, he was stuck on level four of the game.”
“His work started to change then,” Professor Pemberton says. “It morphed into something else.”
“What do you mean?” Rowan asks, angling toward him. The shop grows silent as if the room, too, is listening for whatever comes next.
“He found contradictions in town records.” Professor Pemberton’s gaze darts toward the front door before continuing.
“Names that appeared in private texts but vanished from official histories. References to families that no longer existed, although land and property records suggested otherwise.” His fingers tighten around the arm of his chair.
“Josh became obsessed. Began to believe the inconsistencies were deliberate, and the town was covering up some centuries-old conspiracy. He started asking for access to restricted materials. Spent entire nights in the Ashcroft Library and even secured permission from Mr. Blackhollow to review the private collection at Blackthorn Manor.”
My pulse quickens as I think of Josh’s last visit home, the way he kept checking the windows and lowering his voice whenever his phone rang.
“Did he tell you what he found?” Rowan asks.
“Only that the Salem’s Fall round was going to be different.” Professor Pemberton looks at me, something grave and unsettling in his expression. “He said players wouldn’t simply solve the mystery. They would become part of it.”
A chill moves across my skin as I remember the email I found on Josh’s computer.
“Did he ever mention something called the Veil?”
Professor Pemberton goes completely still, face paling.
“I’m afraid he didn’t.” He rises so abruptly that the legs of his chair scrape against the floor. “I’m sorry. I think we’re finished here.”
“But I still have questions—”
“I’ve told you everything I can. You should both leave,” he says and unlocks the front door, practically shoving Rowan and me out into the street.
“I am sorry about your brother.” He gives me one last sad look.
“Josh was talented and curious but also reckless. Whatever he found, I suggest you don’t repeat his mistakes. ”
When Rowan and I reach campus twenty minutes later, evening has settled over the grounds. He insists on escorting me to Winthrop Commons so I can grab dinner before we part ways.
Students cross the paths in front of us carrying backpacks and takeout bags, the windows of the Commons glowing ahead as we approach the entrance.
“So,” Rowan says as we walk together, “did Pemberton give you the answers you were hoping for?”
“Enough to confirm I’m on the right track.”
“Cool,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and giving me a wry grin. Those adorable dimples make another appearance. “Who should we talk to next?”
“Look, I appreciate your help today, but we’re not going to be friends, okay?”
“We aren’t? Why not?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
I shoot him an exasperated look. “Less than four days ago, you and your buddies drugged and kidnapped me. I got hurt, I bled—you get that, right?”
“But I already told you—”
“Right. I know.” I snort. “Maybe you didn’t do the actual hurting, but you were there. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not ready to rush into some detective partnership or whatever”—I make a motion between us—“you’re trying to make this be.”
Rowan lets out a long, pained sigh.
“You hate me. I understand.”
The guilt in his voice surprises me.
“I don’t hate you,” I say softly. “Maybe—” I’m still in the middle of my sentence when the doors to the Commons swing open and we nearly collide with Silas on his way out.
He’s infuriatingly handsome as always, all dark hair and sharp cheekbones.
For the briefest instant, something almost bizarrely welcoming flashes across his face when he sees me.
Or maybe I imagine it, because a second later, his expression is its usual mask of icy composure.
His gaze shifts to Rowan, one dark eyebrow rising.
“Slumming it, Ashcroft?” he asks his friend.
Rowan sighs. “Leave it alone, Silas.”
Silas ignores him, his attention settling on me with unnerving intensity. “I see you’re still here.”
“You must be devastated,” I say. “I know how desperately you wanted me gone.” I lift my bandaged arm. “Still have the souvenir to prove it.”
I hold his gaze, letting the accusation hang between us, daring him to deny it. A flicker that looks almost like regret shadows his face before the walls slam back into place.
“It certainly is a shame about your roommate.” His voice drops, something darker creeping into it. “You had the perfect excuse to disappear back where you came from. You really should’ve taken it.”
I study him for a beat, caught off guard. The way he says it almost sounds like he had something to do with Eleanor’s death.
But no. That doesn’t make sense.
Silas might be an arrogant, kidnapping asshole, but that doesn’t mean he goes around actually murdering women, right?
I take a step back. “I wouldn’t call finding a dead girl in my dorm room ‘perfect.’”
“What’s the saying? Never look a gift horse in the mouth?” His lips quirk. “Or is it gift corpse?”
Anger and disgust flare hot inside my chest.
“You’re seriously fucked up,” I say. “You know that, right?”
“So I’ve been told.” He shrugs as though it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Then his gaze flicks briefly toward Rowan again. “Stay away from Ashcroft, if you know what’s good for you. You don’t belong in his world.”
The words hit harder than they should. Not because I care what Silas Blackhollow thinks of me, but because some part of me knows exactly what he means. Scholarship student. Transfer. Outsider. People like me don’t belong with people like them.
Rowan’s jaw tightens. “I’ll decide who I want to spend time with, Silas.”
“Fine.” Something dangerous flashes in Silas’s dark eyes. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you both.” He brushes past us and crosses campus with a rigid, controlled stride.
Rowan watches him go, a flicker of unease passing over his face. “He’s an asshole,” he says. “Just ignore him.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one he seems to hate.”
“Don’t worry.” He leans in closer and gives me a shamelessly flirtatious look. “I’ll protect you from him.”
“I can protect myself, but thanks for the offer,” I say, leaving Rowan at the entrance of the Commons, his charming smile faltering just slightly as I head inside to grab my dinner alone.
Moments later, I emerge with a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips and make my way back to Wintermere Hall.
Halfway across the courtyard, movement catches my eye as a sleek black cat steps silently out into the lighted pathway.
Golden eyes watch me carefully. I realize with a start that it’s the same cat I ran into outside the Ashcroft Library.
“Well, hello there, old friend.” A smile tugs at my lips. “We meet again.”
The cat walks straight toward me with the confidence of someone who owns the campus. I crouch and he rubs against my hand with a loud purr.
“I know you’re a black cat and all, but I really hope you aren’t bad luck. No kidnapping this time as soon as you leave, all right?”
As soon as I say it, I have the weirdest thought.
It was almost like the cat was trying to lead me away from the library that night. As if he knew something bad was about to happen and was trying to warn me. As if the cat—
Wait. No…
I shake my head, putting an end to the ridiculous train of thought. That’s insane. Cats don’t know the future.
He butts his head against my bag of food.
“You hungry, little fella?” I ask and unwrap my sandwich, tearing off a piece of turkey. “Here you go.”
He accepts it, purring louder as he chews. I give him another piece and then another because I’m a sucker for a cute furry face.
As I feed him a last few bits of turkey, my phone slips from beneath my arm and lands face-up on the sidewalk. The cat peers down at it, then plants one paw directly on the screen. The display lights up. Not my home screen but an app. Dark background. White lettering.
VANISHED
I freeze.
The cat snatches one last bite of turkey from my hand and gives a satisfied flick of his tail before trotting away, disappearing into the darkness.
I stare down at the phone, the app still flashing across my screen. I’d completely forgotten I still had Josh’s game installed. He’d insisted I download the most recent release last October, so whenever I freed up, I could play and see what he’d been working on.
My thumb hovers over the icon and I tap “start.”
An hour later, I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed in Wintermere Hall, half my sandwich still untouched beside me. I’m already on level three of the Salem’s Fall round, having gotten through the first two levels quickly.
The game is filled with hidden messages tucked inside faded journal entries. Maps that only make sense once they’re folded a certain way. Ciphers concealed inside old town records. Nothing is random. Everything connects.
Josh’s voice echoes in my memory.
The game is never about looking for one answer, Jackie. You’re always looking for the patterns.
Outside, an owl hoots in the darkness as I finally solve the third level.
A cool breeze drifts through my open window, and I shiver, pulling a blanket tighter around myself as the next chapter opens.
At the top is a strange symbol: a curved spiral with jagged lines radiating outward, intersecting with an inverted pentagram. Below it reads:
COMING SOON.
LEVEL FOUR: VEIL NIGHT