“Being here is difficult for him,” Harper adds, her voice dropping as if the walls themselves might be listening. Sighing, I wrap Harper further into my embrace. We sit in each other’s comfort, letting our thoughts settle. There’s so much to say, so much we’ve avoided discussing in front of Rhys.
“I get it,” I finally reply. “I really do. But the fact remains that we can’t stay here indefinitely. We have nowhere to go andno idea what’s being plotted behind the scenes. We need some leverage.” Harper shifts, tilting her head back to look at the high ceiling.
“If only every room in this damn manor wasn’t locked,” she twists her lips and shrugs in defeat. However, something within me clicks into place, a spark flickering to life in my psyche. With it comes a trickle of rebellion, the notion that I can turn the tide bolstering me to act. We’ve sat around waiting for the next attack for far too long.
“Come on,” I say, already standing and planting her onto her feet. “I have an idea.” Steering her towards the door, I glance down the hallway where Rhys and Addy disappeared, listening for footsteps, voices, or any sign that our borrowed time is dwindling. My gaze slides back to Harper, to the trust written plainly on her face, and any doubt I had cures itself. Giving her a few instructions, I creep away on silent feet to gather the resources I need, then meet her five minutes later as stated.
The door at the end of a quieter wing awaits, tucked away from prying eyes. The hallway surrounding us is lined with oil paintings and dark wood paneling, the atmosphere heavier than anywhere else in the manor. I’ve only been here once before, and even so, an air of malevolence seeps out from beneath the wood.
My heart pounds a little harder, not from fear but from the thrill of doing something we absolutely should not be doing. It’s been a long time since I’ve tapped into this particular skill set. Pulling two objects out of my pocket, I pause to attach Harper’s mic clip to my collar. It’ll be easier to communicate with her from a distance that way. Holding a slim letter opener in my other hand, I crouch in front of the door, my shoulders tense as I slide the metal carefully into the lock.
Harper lowers behind me, her hand braced against my back, her breath warm against my shoulder. She’s curious in a way that is wholly distracting whilst I’m trying to listen out forthe quiet click and scrape of internal pins giving way. Whether Harper hears it through the mic or not, the sound of the deadbolt vibrates through the letter opener, and we exchange a look. We’re really doing this. The lock turns, the door easing open to reveal Phillip Waversea’s office with a soft, traitorous creak.
“Wait out here in case Rhys appears,” I instruct as I stand. Harper makes a noise in the back of her throat, already squirrelling her way into the room.
“I didn’t come with you to be the look-out. Two pairs of hands make lighter work.” I hesitate in the doorway, my eyes sliding back to the hallway. If he finds us in here, he’ll be pissed, but there’s no turning back now. I’m the one who needs to pick the locks that are inevitably inside, and Harper is already on her knees, rifling through a sideboard. Puffing out a frustrated breath, I step over the threshold.
The office is exactly the same as last time, all dark wood and leather, the desk chair positioned like a throne facing the door. The smell hits me first, old paper and expensive cologne, power bottled and left to go stale. For a heartbeat, I just stand there, absorbing the gravity of where we are, the sheer audacity of rooting through Phillip’s office while he’s away on business, before the urgency kicks in and I move.
“Drawers,” I murmur, already heading for the desk, my fingers testing locks that I knew would refuse to budge. Harper drifts to the bookshelves, running her hands along spines, pulling out notebooks embossed with crests and initials that mean nothing to us. I crouch again, working the letter opener into another lock, my jaw clenched as sweat prickles at my forehead.
The seconds stretch out, every tiny sound amplified in my ears. Somewhere nearby, a clock ticks obnoxiously loud, trying to distract me from the clicking of the lock. I fight the urge to rip it off the wall just to quiet my nerves. At last, the lock givesway with a stubborn click and the drawer slides open, revealing meticulously stacked documents and a leather-bound planner dated from years ago. I sift through them, noting the Waversea Academy headers. Without really knowing what I’m looking at, I pull out my phone and take photos of everything.
Then, I shove the drawer shut and move on to the next. My movements become faster now, adrenaline spiking as Harper mutters under her breath behind me, narrating her own lack of luck. The disappointment between us becomes diluted by desperation. Walking out of here with nothing is a defeat I can’t accept.
Harper shifts along the bookcase, pulling free another notebook and flipping through it, her shoulders slumping when she finds page after page of blank, cream paper.
“Well, at least I know what not to buy Phillip for Christmas,” she deadpans. I grunt, doubting that Rhys is even invited home for the holidays. Moving to the filing cabinet in the corner, my fingers brush over the cold metal handle and test the lock. This one has no give, its keyhole is more complex and far too small for the letter opener. I chew on my inner cheek, wondering if I can pick it up and carry it out of here until the sound of footsteps snaps my attention upward.
“Harper?” Rhys’ voice echoes faintly down the hall. At first, between the shifting of her hair on her receiver and the thudding of my pulse against the mic, she doesn’t hear him. But then he shouts louder, and panic flares between her green eyes.
Turning too quickly, she stumbles, taking my heart down with her. I try to catch her, but there’s no crossing the room in time, and as Harper flails, she manages to latch onto a golden bookend on a nearby shelf. In theory, it should have toppled with her, but aside from a minor tilt, it remains stuck in place. Further down the bookcase, the wood pops free of its frame, thesliver of space becoming visible. Harper and I share a stunned expression, but there’s no time for caution.
Diving for the bookcase, I pry open the secretive door and peer inside. Luckily, there’s no tripwire waiting because Harper shoves her hands against my back, and I stagger inside. The door is closed behind me, the wood slotting back into place.
“Harper, what are you doing?” I hear Rhys ask, although the sound is muffled. I turn then, realizing she’s not behind me. She’s still in the office. Pressing my face to the narrow crack left behind, I just about make out the silhouette of Rhys hovering in the main doorway, his posture rigid. Trusting her to handle him, I tear my gaze away and switch on the torch on my phone.
At first, shadows claw at the edges of my vision, tricking me with what is just out of sight until I locate a light switch and flip it. The bulb flickers with lack of use and hums slightly, but once fully on, it’s surprisingly bright. Taking in the small room surrounding me, my breath catches despite myself.
Stacked boxes line the walls, labeled with neat, precise handwriting. Folders bulging with paperwork and files look like they haven’t seen the light of day in years, dust coating their brown sleeves. A safe sits eye-level with me in the corner, matte black and imposing, with a code release. I disregard it, having no idea of where to start with hacking the code, but there’s enough here to keep me busy.
A slow grin spreads across my face, adrenaline buzzing through my veins. I still have no idea what I’m looking for, but anything relating to Della Mae would be a step in the right direction. Anything that could give me a heads up on the who, what and why behind blackmailing both Kenneth and Peterson to put Harper’s life in danger. As far as sourcing leverage goes, this is the freaking jackpot.
Chapter Twenty Four
“Harper, what are you doing?” Rhys frowns, standing in the doorway. He doesn’t take a step inside, his eyes darting around the office with a haunted expression on his taut face. I straighten slowly from where I’m half-crouched beside the desk, my pulse tripping and my mind scrambling to come up with a believable excuse.
“I—” I start, then stop. Lying to Rhys has never sat well with me. Some may argue he deserves it, but I know him better than that. However, in this instance, given how he reacted to talking about his mom this morning, I’m not sure the truth would be worse. He told me to drop it, yet here I am snooping for…I don’t know what. Proof of life? Something to signify that Della Mae must be out there somewhere, just as miserable and craving a connection as he is.
Rhys stays rooted to the threshold, waiting for my answer as his fingers curl and unfurl at his sides. My shoulders sink, not seeing any way around this until a voice sounds from inside my head.
“This is a treasure trove of information,” Clayton says into the mic. I fight to keep my expression blank. “Keep him busy fora while. I think I might actually have something here.” Meeting Rhys’ stare, he gives me a look that says he’s five seconds from dragging me out of here and slamming the door shut. What if it locks again? How will I explain that Clayton will have to pick the lock from the inside?
Swallowing, I decide that I won’t lie. I’ll just stall long enough to let Clay finish his investigation. And besides, it’s not a lie if there is some truth to it. Rhys watches me slip around the desk and then slowly lift my weight to sit on the edge.
“I promised I would help you rewrite the bad memories you have in this manor. We can’t ignore this one,” I pat the desk beside me. I don’t know exactly what happened here, but I know enough by the way he won’t cross the threshold, by the way his knuckles have gone white, by the way his chest is barely rising.
“Harper,” Rhys growls, grating against my receivers. “This is the last place I want to see you. Get. Out.” I don’t move. Instead, I slide back until the edge of the desk presses into the backs of my knees, and reach for the hem of my sweater. Rhys gives a few more light threats, but when I peel my sweater and cami off in one motion, leaving me naked from the waist up, he quickly stops talking.
