Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The feeling of the ladder swaying startles me as I climb to the top shelf in the Bishop University Library archives. Dust flies off the box I grab and I cough trying to clear my throat.
The sound of rain pounding on the ceiling of the archives comforts me as I walk through the narrow room to my desk.
I’ve combed through box after box for hours and instead of finding anything about the Bishop family, I’ve found my head throbbing instead. I want to quit until I notice a leathery-looking book shoved into the back of a dusty archive box.
The leather spine is still supple under my fingertips, untouched by time.
When I pull it from the box, I notice ornate gold detailing the sides.
My finger brushes off the dust from the top revealing etched lettering, and my heart skips a beat as my mind processes what I’ve found. Bishop Family Accounts.
“I found you,” I whisper.
Undoing the strap, the book falls open to a scrawl so ornate it borders on illegible. I picture some Bishop ancestor, maybe in a three-piece suit, hunched over a desk, scribbling under the glow of an oil lamp.
But the fantasy falters fast as page after page is nothing but random numbers and letters, no sense or rhyme to any of it.
“Seriously?” I groan, flipping faster now, frustrated.
Then I stop, flipping back and forth a few times before sliding my finger between two crushed pages.
Between the two pages is an image pasted to the paper. At first it looks like another smear, a photograph that hasn’t fully developed. But the longer I stare, the more it shifts, focusing and pulling itself together until it moves.
My breath hitches as I watch the picture sharpen into a scene.
It’s a nineteen-twenties train station. Three people stand there as if frozen mid-breath, and I just know without a doubt that I’m looking at a photo of the Bishop siblings.
Eleanor and Clara stand together, smiling as though sharing a secret between them.
It’s Oliver that really captures my attention though.
He’s tall, dapper in a grey suit, and his hair slicked neatly to the side.
One hand is tucked into his pocket, the other holding onto a pocket watch, his gaze steady on the camera.
My chest gives a strange flutter, but I ignore it.
“Who are you, Oliver?” I whisper, leaning closer. My fingertips hover, then graze the page, tracing the lines of his face.
A cool draft spills over my skin, raising goosebumps as I watch the image ripple like water.
I jerk back, my heart hammering, but the ripple only grows, spreading outward until the whole page shimmers like a pond disturbed by a skipping stone. Light flares, bright enough to blind, and in that light comes sound.
The shrill whistle of a train blares and I bring my hands to my ears, blocking the sound.
The floor vibrates, and a low rumble builds, shaking the desk. A gust of wind whips through the archive scattering loose papers into the air.
I dive under the desk and shield my face with my arms. “Help!” I yell out, but the roar swallows my voice, the rush of air so strong it knocks me sideways.
As quickly as it came, the wind stops, the soft hiss of papers falling to the floor my only comfort.
I force myself to breathe. Once. Twice.
The silence lingers until the sound of footsteps near me. I watch as polished leather shoes click across the tile and stop right in front of my desk.
My pulse thunders in my throat, and I hold my breath.
“You alright down there, Dollface?” It’s a man’s voice, warm and teasing. Definitely not a ghost or my imagination playing tricks on me.
A hand extends into view, palm open. “I won’t bite,” he says, his voice a gentle purr.
My body trembles, but I reach out. His hand closes around mine, his grip warm, grounding. And when he pulls me to my feet, he’s so close that my chest nearly brushes his.
“Steady now. You sounded like you were in trouble.”
I lift my eyes, my body freezing automatically. It’s him. It’s Oliver Bishop.
His jaw carries a shadow of stubble, his hair neat but soft as though wind blown. He’s dressed exactly as he was in the photograph—grey three-piece suit, and a maroon bow tie knotted sharp at his throat. I look up into mismatched green and gold eyes that are steady and impossibly alive.
He’s even more striking in person, his gentle gaze and the slight tint in his cheeks causing my heart to hammer.
“You’ll forgive me, miss,” he says carefully, gaze flicking around the room. “But I haven’t the faintest idea where I’ve landed…only that you called.”
I’m still staring at him—oh God, it’s freaking Oliver Bishop—when the sound of the archive room door creaks open.
“Beck? You in here?” It’s Liz’s voice.
Panic zips through me. I scramble, shoving a stray paper into the ledger before moving to block Oliver from view. He just watches me, bemused, as though he’s amused by the way I’m flailing.
“Uh—back here!” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.
Liz rounds the corner, carrying a travel mug that smells suspiciously like peppermint mocha. Her gaze sweeps across the table. “Girl, what is going on? I thought you were going home hours ago.”
“I, um, got caught up.” I try to sound casual, but I think I’m failing. “Look at this. I think I found the Bishop family’s ledger.”
Liz perks up, stepping closer. “Ohhh, creepy rich family secrets? Please tell me this is your project.”
“Maybe.” My hand hovers near the ledger like I can somehow stop it from glowing, breathing, doing whatever impossible thing it just did. I risk a quick glance at Oliver, who, mercifully, has pressed himself into the shadows between two shelves.
Liz doesn’t notice. She’s too busy sipping her mocha and peering at the box. “If you find a scandal in there, promise me I’ll be the first to hear it. This town thrives on drama, dead or alive.”
“Deal,” I say quickly, my voice too high.
She squints at me. “Why do you look guilty?”
“I don’t!” I shake my head, forcing my body to relax.
She grins. “Mhm. Sure. Where’s the sexy boy you’re hiding?” At my expression, she cackles, rolling her eyes. “Relax. I’m joking.”
Before I can dig myself deeper, Liz’s phone buzzes. She groans. “Ugh, it’s my study group. Don’t do anything fun without me.”
She disappears as quickly as she came, her boots echoing down the hallway.
I sag against the table, my heart racing. When I turn back, Oliver is leaning out of the shadows, one brow arched.
“Friend of yours?” he asks.
“Best friend,” I mutter. “And apparently the nosiest person alive.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “She seems spirited. I like her.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He chuckles, quiet and warm, like the sound of a secret I shouldn’t enjoy.
“So, Beck was it? Tell me, what is this place?” He eyes me up and down and I feel self conscious.
I threw on the chunkiest sweater I could find this morning and paired it with a skirt and knee-high boots.
I thought I looked nice but now I feel underdressed for this strange meeting.
“I don’t think I’m in my father’s office anymore. ”
“Yeah, it’s Beck. And this is my University’s archives. Welcome to Bishop University and I guess the future.”
Oliver’s brows scrunch together. “Bishop University?”
I nod once. “It’s named after your family.”
He looks at me amazed.
“How about we get out of here and I’ll explain everything?”
Oliver assesses me for a moment and then something settles into his gaze, a sense of determination and something like understanding. “Lead the way.”