Chapter 38 Jules
JULES
For the next couple of hours, Linc and I talk to all three volunteers who have a wealth of information about the Washington and Lincoln families.
As a precaution, Linc goes by Dirk again. I’m Yulia and every time someone addresses me, he stifles laughter.
“We’re particularly interested in any personal effects or correspondence that might have been housed here during Lincoln’s visits,” I explain to a helpful woman with a puff of white hair. Her nametag says Dorothy.
Should I be surprised?
She quietly taps the tips of her fingers together.
“Oh, how fascinating. I really appreciate it when young people are interested in history.” She leans into us as if about to confide something.
“You know, there are loads of ghost stories about old buildings like this, but I am more intrigued by rumors.” She nods meaningfully.
Linc and I exchange a look.
“Some say that Lincoln kept a private study space here, though we’ve never been able to definitively locate it. The building has been renovated several times over the years and all of the furniture on display is spread between the old garage, the storage shed, and the pigeoneer.”
“The what?” I ask.
“The pigeoneer is a small structure to house pigeons,” Dorothy explains. “Follow me through the rose arbor and I’ll show you.”
All the while, she tells us about how supposedly Abraham Lincoln liked the original desk in the library so much, he had it replicated—one for his home back in Illinois, then another for the White House, and had replicas made for each of his four sons.
Dorothy points out the pigeoneer—a large coop-like structure—then looks around surreptitiously and opens the storage shed door.
“Call me a romantic, but I’m rather fond of the notion of our former president sitting at his desk, composing his thoughts, recounting his experiences, sending correspondence home, and drafting early versions of what would become historical speeches. ”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Linc says.
My body hums with excitement as we enter the shed, only illuminated by the cloudy afternoon light.
Our intrepid tour guide pulls a cloth off of a piece of furniture, apparently looking for a desk that’s not too big, not too small, “… but fit Abraham Lincoln, just right,” she mutters as she peeks under the protective coverings.
Dorothy says, “Sometimes they move things around, especially if they go to auction.”
I arch an eyebrow. I would hate for someone like Aiken, the Demo King, to get his destructive little mitts on anything found here.
She adds, “I believe this particular desk used to be in the old conservatory—before it was demolished in 1892. Lincoln was quite fond of it, according to family records.”
“The conservatory?” Jules asks.
Dorothy beams. “Oh, yes. The glass house on the south lawn. It was a beautiful octagonal structure with a distinctive star-like framework. It inspired the DC World’s Fair proposal, though Chicago won the bid.”
“They sure did,” Linc says.
“I imagine Mr. Lincoln came here to write or reflect when he needed peace and quiet. The family said he loved sitting in the glass room, surrounded by light.” She smiles fondly.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” I say.
Dorothy’s smile is one of nostalgia.
Linc asks, “The conservatory was demolished?”
“Unfortunately.” She pauses and then excitedly says, “Ah! Here it is. Glad we didn’t have to venture into the garage.”
Abraham Lincoln’s desk sits in front of us, a piece of history.
The surface is about five feet of smooth, polished oak that glows a deep, amber-brown.
The front panel is carved with intricate scrollwork and tiny rosettes.
The drawers on either side are solid and symmetrical.
The brass handles catch the light, gleaming and winking like they know the secrets of the past. In the center, a panel stirs my curiosity, makes me wonder if there is a small hidden recess.
This desk bears the weight of centuries, the echoes of hands that have signed legislation, written speeches, and maybe even dared to peek inside.
“Wow,” I breathe.
We ask if we can take photos and examine the desk.
As if thrilled by our interest, Dorothy gives us free rein, saying she has to rotate for her hour at the front desk, but that it’s okay for us to stick around for a few more minutes if we promise to leave everything as it was and close the door securely.
“It reminds me of the Resolute Desk,” Linc says.
“The one in the Oval Office?” I ask, referring to the piece gifted by Queen Victoria to the sitting president, Rutherford B. Hayes, in 1880, out of timbers from a ship that explored the Arctic, called HMS Resolute.
Dorothy nods. “Historians speculate that this desk provided inspiration, but as the Resolute Desk was a gift from overseas and much later, I might add, it remains uncertain.”
After giving her our thanks, Dorothy leaves. We look carefully at the desk. Linc also notices something odd about the wood panel running along the side and points it out. “Could be that numerous moves around the house knocked it loose.”
The corner of my lip lifts. “Or it could be a secret hiding place.”
Pressing gently, we hear a soft click. Behind it is a narrow space, a hidden compartment, but it’s empty except for dust and the faint scent of old wood.
“The letters could have been here,” I breathe.
“But they’re not now,” Linc says, disappointment heavy in his voice.
I snap some photos moments before footsteps echo along the nearby pathway. A surge of panic seizes me and I have to take a steadying breath, reminding myself that we’re not in a tunnel, no one is chasing us. Probably.
We quickly close the panel, cover the desk, and secure the shed’s door.
I glance over my shoulder, but it’s only a tour group approaching. Without thinking, Linc and I join hands—a couple strolling on a summer afternoon through the rose garden, admiring the historical architecture.
My mind races like a thoroughbred, thinking about Linc. Too bad no one would put money on me being with him in real life—the possibility of us only exists in this made-for-TV fantasy.
Linc and I spend the rest of the day searching the city, but we find nothing else. No more hidden compartments, no clues about where the letters might have gone, no breadcrumbs to follow.
Thankfully, no more thugs.
“We’re at a dead end,” I admit as we sit in a quiet room at a public library, surrounded by books that haven’t given us any answers.
He says, “We’ve been gone for days. Maybe we ought to head back to Chicago.”
I nod, though the thought of giving up the search makes me feel heavy. “Yeah. I should probably check in at my real job before my boss fires me.”
He chuckles. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
Even though traveling by private jet back the way we came is as surreal as when we left, everything between Linc and me is now layered with the memory of our very real adventure, the kiss in the alley, and unanswered questions—and not only about the lost love letters.
Linc seems slightly subdued like thoughts weigh heavily in his mind, too.
Are they about him and me? The men who were chasing us through the tunnels? The fact that he may never find the letters? Something else?
All I find myself doing is staring at his hands, remembering how they framed my face. His mouth on mine. The way we felt together.
By the time we land, I’m a bundle of nervous energy, unsure whether I’m more anxious about returning to work or about what happens next between Linc and me. We share a gentle parting kiss and go home in separate, sleek black cars.
Mine delivers me to Logan Square, and we’re halfway down the block to my building when I realize something is very, very wrong.
It isn’t there.
Well, the ghost of the building is there, but it’s a blackened shell. Police tape flutters in the evening breeze and the smell of smoke hangs in the air. I don’t see any firetrucks, but a few official-looking people in hard hats pick through the debris.
The driver leaves, and I stand on the sidewalk, blinking at what used to be my home.
“Excuse me,” I call to one of the investigators. “I live here. What happened?”
“Fire started around midnight two days ago. We believe it was an electrical issue. Investigation pending. No casualties or injuries, thank goodness—the building was mostly empty.”
Two nights ago. While I was in Washington with Linc. Someone burned down my building.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Unknown number: Your payment was late. Consider this a reminder.
My blood turns to ice. I look around, but no one moves toward me. Nothing seems suspicious or out of place, except for the charred remains of my building, but someone must be watching me.
This is about my father’s debt, the debt I’ve been dutifully paying every month to keep something like this from happening.
Dad warned me. Said the guys he owed were bad news.
That’s why I got involved in his forgeries.
They know about me. My father said if we paid them off, they’d leave me alone.
It was an impossible position. So I helped him get out of the red.
Unfortunately, he had more creditors. But I haven’t been late.
I’ve been making every payment on time, even when it meant eating rice for weeks.
Unless the rules changed.
My phone rings, and Linc’s name appears on the screen.
“Jules? I just heard about a fire in Logan Square on the news. Are you—?”
“My building burned down,” I say numbly. “Everything I own is gone.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”
Voice shaking, I say, “Linc, I don’t think this was an accident.”
“What do you mean?”
I look around the burned ruins of my life, at the police tape and the investigators and the message on my phone that makes my hands shake. “I mean, this got personal.”
When Linc’s car pulls up twenty minutes later, I’m still standing on the sidewalk in plain sight like a statue. He gets out and wraps his arms around me without saying a word. I let myself lean into him because I hardly have the strength to stand on my own right now.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
“Not really,” I whisper against his chest.
Now I know that whatever we’ve stumbled into—whether it’s about Lincoln’s letters or insurance fraud or my father’s debts—someone is willing to destroy my entire life to stop me.
And I have no idea what to do.