Chapter 37
37
Sonny
H e wastes no time putting me to work. When I got to my cafeteria work study that evening, I’m told that Dr. Whitlock had already informed them of my transfer and I’m no longer needed there. Then, I checked my email and found a laundry list of tasks he wants me to complete before his lecture tomorrow morning.
I practically stomped the entire way across campus to the main building, thankful to find the entire psychology office blanketed in darkness and the shades to his office drawn. My fists shake with frustration at his audacity to force me into a position with him that I never technically agreed to. When I finally find the light switch, I see that Hayes’s desk is completely empty of his things, and my stomach sinks.
What does he think about being booted from his position and replaced with me? Does he blame me?
Honestly, I shouldn’t give a single fuck about him after what he did. But I can only imagine what kind of hell his life has been in the past week, all because he chose me as his date to that ridiculous ball and his victim of the night.
Sighing, I plop myself into the rolling chair and pull my phone out to reread what Whitlock wants me to do.
It’s mostly simple paperwork—filing the stack of exams he left on the conference table, entering grades for one of his introductory classes into his online portal, and making copies of pop quizzes for his advanced level courses.
It comes as no surprise that his management style is very demanding, but hands-off.
The problems begin when I realize he didn’t leave instructions for where to file the exams, nor did he give me access to his online portal to enter grades. I also have no idea how to work his dinosaur of a copy machine. I tinker around with everything, trying to find a way around the issues before finally gaining the courage to email him.
The only task I can check off while I wait for his reply is reshelving a stack of books he left on with a sticky note on top, requesting I put them away if I have time. In true obsessive form, he has his library organized with a numbered classification system that doesn’t seem to fit the standard I’ve seen in other libraries, which points to it being one that he’s created on his own.
Most of the stack is made up of psychology textbooks that appear to have been out of print for quite a while, which only makes me more curious as to why he has them out to begin with. They should be tucked safely in the Landry library. Surely, any information packed in those pages has been updated or expanded upon by now. Why bother keeping them around, let alone reading through them?
I’ve heard rumors that he was working on a secret research project and Dean Hatchcroft had given him full access to the university cellars to hold his subjects before it was shut down. Logically, I know the whispers can’t be more than paranoid students feeding into the mysterious, practically evil persona he’s created for himself around campus, and there’s no chance any of it is true. What kind of hell would that put the university in?
Then again, he’s a really quirky guy. A level of genius that thrives outside of the boundaries of society. He did insist on going somewhere private to discuss the project with Dean Hatchcroft’s friend the night of the Falconry. If he were working on a secret research project, it’s probably something that could change the world of psychology altogether. Maybe the university sees his potential and is willing to take the risks.
Fabricating stories in my head is the only way I manage to get through the hour that it takes me to find the correct spot for all his textbooks. Everything is over complicated and his system for organization feels more chaotic than logical. It’s like he threw each book in a random spot on the shelf one day, then assigned them all numbers out of order.
The shelves in his office are the only ones that appear to have some sense of classification. They’re stacked and filled to the brim with worn, leather-bound books that look like they haven’t been touched in decades. Some have faded titles and intricate designs stamped across the spines, while others are blank. The roughest ones sit on the top shelf, nearly impossible to reach.
They’ve obviously been put there with the intention of no one ever touching them. I know I shouldn’t, especially on my first day working for him—the only time I’ve ever been trusted alone in his space. I should go down and check my email, then finish up my tasks so I can leave for the night. But something about a particular set of black books has me hesitating in the middle of his office.
I have no idea what it is. An unnamable pull leads me to balance on the arm of the couch and the back, just enough height to reach the first three books and pull them down without another thought. Once they’re in my hands, I manage to safely climb back down in a daze and shuffle downstairs to my desk, allowing the first book to fall open before me.
This journal belongs to: Finley Landry
June, 1877
“Holy shit,” I whisper beneath my breath, quickly flipping to the first journal entry.
I’ve been forced to start a new journal since my last was lost in the woods sometime during my escape. These past few weeks have been a hellscape, as I avoid being seen by anyone in town. The Syndicate has realized they’ve made a grave mistake by allowing me to slip past them the night of the massacre, and has assembled their best team to capture me before anyone discovers what they’ve done. If the team is anything like the previous one who couldn’t properly count, I don’t believe I have much to fear.
I feel as if I’m living in an upside down world. One where I’m forced to hide in the land my father gave his life’s savings to obtain, while those who have sucked us dry of all our resources get to roam free. They exploit my family’s personal grounds as if they own them. Prowling around in nature has never been in my wheelhouse and living in these woods has activated a side of me I truly never thought I had.
Against all odds, Lewis Whitlock—the brute who lives with his father in a cabin on the outskirts of town—has become my saving grace. He is the only reason I’ve been able to stay alive as long as I have.
He and Emma were courting each other behind our family’s backs. He was quite fond of my older sister and devastated to hear of what happened to her. I can’t help but hope that it was her on the other side guiding him to help me. I’ll have to explain the night he found me in another entry, though. My eyes are growing heavy with exhaustion and my hands are fatigued from chopping wood earlier this afternoon. I just wanted to make sure this part of me was still alive, despite feeling like I’ve died a thousand deaths. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or terrified to find that it is.
Until we meet again, Journal.
Good night.
I turn the page to read the next entry, but my phone vibrates on the desk beside me with an email notification lighting up the screen. Dr. Whitlock has sent a pointed email with more detailed instructions. Usually, I’d be embarrassed by his tone, but something about this journal has shifted my entire mood and I’m too distracted to care how he thinks of me at the moment.
Could he be related to the Lewis Whitlock in the journal? Is that how he obtained them?
Pinching the brittle pages between my fingers, I consider the authenticity of it. If the date is correct, it’s nearly one hundred and fifty years old. The words are scribed in a rushed cursive that makes it difficult to read, and the ink is fading in random spots on the pages. All of that seems to match with the time frame.
But the Landry family died in May 1877 in a house fire. It’s plastered across every plaque around campus and on every informational pamphlet about the school. They’ve even got the dining area of the home where they all died roped off in a back corner of the main building. I’ve heard rumors of a festival that is held in their honor in Nocturne Valley each December. It devastated the town for years before they decided to turn the old castle into a university in their honor.
So, it has to be fake, right?
I need to read more. And not just to feed my own curiosity. There’s something about these journals that feels too familiar to ignore, and digging deeper into the story is the only way I can scratch the itch they’ve created the moment I laid eyes on them.
Shaking my head at the silly urge, I swipe up all three books and slide them into my backpack, promising myself I’ll put them back as soon as I’m done. Hopefully, Dr. Whitlock won’t notice they’re gone before I have a chance to read through them.
It takes me another hour to finish up the list he left for me and slip back out the door. It’s nearly eleven at night when I pass the clock tower, and the campus is completely empty.
“You’re just now getting back?” That spine-chilling, deep voice sounds from somewhere in the shadows of the trees.
The sound of it still makes my heart sputter as if it’s coming from a stranger, and every internal warning sign goes off, like my body refuses to acknowledge him as anything but a threat.
“It took you a while to reply,” I say in a sharp tone.
I’m too irritated with him for startling me to filter my responses right now. Still, I turn to face the direction his voice came from to block his view of my backpack. It’s silly. I know the journals are safely tucked between my other books, but I’m terrified of being caught. I’ve never been very good at breaking rules.
“It all appeared self-explanatory,” he mumbles, finally stepping out of the shadows to reveal his face, glistening with sweat from another late-night run. “I’ll have to remember you need more instruction than most.”
Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest as he approaches. “It would be helpful, considering I’m jumping into this role halfway through the semester.”
Whitlock doesn’t appear to be offended by my snarky responses, the way I would have expected a man with his size ego would be. In my experience, most people detest being challenged. Not him. In fact, I could swear I see a ghost of a smile on his face as he stops beside me, nodding his head toward our buildings.
“I’ll walk with you the rest of the way.”
Stepping back, I shake my head. The last thing I want is to spend more time with him when I’ve just committed larceny against him. “That’s not necessary. I’m going straight to my building, nowhere else.”
“As am I,” he coos. “I could walk behind you, if you wish. I only thought this would be more comfortable for you.”
Frowning, I shake my head. There isn’t much of an option besides walking together, regardless of how uncomfortable that may be.
We fall into step together and I become hyper aware of every micro-movement he makes beside me. From the way he plucks his headphones from his ears and slips them into their case to the even, slightly elevated rhythm of his breaths from his run. I want to say something, but I’m not sure what’s appropriate anymore. He’s seen me naked, but is it okay for me to ask about his personal life?
“Surely, I’m not as scary as you’re pretending to find me right now,” he berates, raising a brow at me.
“I’m very confused about where we stand anymore,” I admit, my voice lowered.
He smirks, as if he’s satisfied with that response. He likes keeping me confused.
“I suppose you’ll figure it out, eventually. For now, try to abide by the curfew. It appears to be another area you feel superior to your peers.”
My head swings over to face him, my mouth hanging open. “I do not?—”
“Save it, Little Nightmare. Channel that anger into your next paper. I’ve got to get some sleep. Goodnight.” I realize then that we’re somehow standing before Devlin.
Which makes absolutely no sense, considering we're still at least one hundred feet away a second ago. Whitlock takes advantage of my momentary confusion, jogging off ahead of me to get to his own building. I call out for him to wait, which he responds by throwing his hand up in a dismissive wave.
When he reaches his door, he looks back at me, and I swear I see him wink before disappearing behind the door.