She writes Peter a note on the wooden desk:Safe travels. Love, V
She makes her way down the hall, pausing at some of therooms she passes. Their closed doors tantalizingly call out to her. Are there any secretaries within? Which of these rooms did she already search?
If she saw inside, she might remember.
Should she wander in, and if anyone asks, say she is looking for the bathroom?
But she’ll be back Saturday—and right now, she doesn’t want to be stupid. Rose is probably lurking around here somewhere. And if this too-small-shirt prank is any indication, Vivian needs to watch her back.
“Please stay away,” the mysterious note that arrived to her apartment said. Vivian intends to do nothing of the sort.
Taylor
Two days after her interview, the job offer comes in the way one might expect from a secret society: handwritten, enclosed in a fancy navy-blue lined envelope, and hand delivered—slipped under her door sometime during the night.
Taylor Adams, we are pleased to offer you the position. Should you choose to accept, report Monday morning at nine o’clock. Attire is business casual.
The offer is vague, no mention of salary or benefits. Yet it is a link—as clear as day—to Vivian and to Taylor’s mother. The ivory paper seems to be the same stationery as the note Taylor uncovered in Vivian’s apartment. And it’s similarly embossed with the hat symbol, matching her mom’s last letter, which Taylor’s dad finally got around to mailing to her—and which she’s hung up on her fridge.
Taylor traces the imprint of the top hat, feeling a spark of excitement.
“Congrats,” Sam says, when she shows him the offer. He is not a morning person, so she waited to knock on his door until she heard the shower water run through the pipes between their walls and then turn off.
“How does the Knox know where you live?” He runs a hand through his hair, which is one shade lighter brown than his goatee. He’s wearing his favorite BronCore Fitness yellow T-shirt.
“Uh, I don’t know,” she admits. It’s a good point; it’s not like she handed the Knox her CV. “Maybe Anna?”
“So, they know where you liveandsomehow got access into the building?”
“Maybe Anna,” Taylor repeats, feeling a little foolish for not having considered this. “I’ll ask her.” But she knows she’ll do no such thing.
Should you choose to accept.She accepted the moment she stepped foot into the Knox, maybe even before.
“How much do you know about this place?” Sam asks.
She shrugs. “Enough, I think.”
“Do you, though?”
“Why? What are you getting it?”
“I know you’re not from here, but this place has a history, Taylor.”
She rolls her eyes. “Every place has a history.”
“Not like this. You know the famous art heist at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum? Where the thieves dressed up as security guards?”
She does, as a matter of fact. She’s visited the museum and seen the thirteen hauntingly empty frames where the paintingsused to hang. In fact, she just caught a great indie film about the robbery:Any Day Now.
“You mean, the famouslyunsolvedheist? Yes.” Taylor knows what Sam’s hinting at but isn’t in the mood to be obliging; not when he was immediately trying to tarnish her excitement about her new job, her new start.
Sam grows more animated as he continues. “And they say that after Whitey Bulger went on the lam he used to stay at the Knox, whenever he rolled into town. And that the Boston cops just looked the other way, with their pockets greased. Did you knowthat?”
She shakes her head. If Sam is trying to scare her off, he’s doing the exact opposite. This place is sounding more and more intriguing.
“And then there’s the rumor about how Ted Kennedy was a member, so they covered up the Chappaquiddick incident.” He pauses and then adds, “Oh—and the Knox siphoned off millions from ‘the Big Dig’ through various shell companies and consulting fees. Or so they say.”
“Are you done?” she asks.
