Brontë strides beside me in the dark and musty archives of St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts. Our phone flashlights pan the tall racks stuffed with unorganized boxes thrown down here without a care for order. His footfalls are as noiseless as mine, which made trespassing onto the grounds of St. Aurelius’s easier than it would’ve been with anyone else.
To my chagrin, his past remains an enigma. Emi is confident the Bourbon brothers have criminal histories after her last visit shed a sliver of light on Margot’s disappearance. Too much of my past week has been spent obsessing over countless theories and one blaring question:
What happened to them?
I’ve been dreaming of him, this maddeningly mysterious coroner. He’s in my every thought, as permanent and permeating as ink bleeding on a page. Staining every crevice in my mind. Ineedto know more.
Emi bought us all night for this mission, feeding a pre-recorded loop through the cams. We have until campus security’s shift changes in the morning to find what we need and get out. Now may be my only chance to get answers straight from the source.
“Did you go to school,monsieur?”
Brontë cocks an eyebrow. “Of course I did.”
“How far? College? Graduate?” At his escalating frown, I shrug. “Just making small talk.”
“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”
A harmless deal. He knows enough of my secrets already to put me behind bars for life. “I’m listening.”
“What was school like for you?”
My head tilts as I consider, watching motes of dust swirl in the beams of light. “I’ve never stepped foot inside a classroom. Knives were my crayons, people were my canvas. My peers were mostly other Morgensterns. I didn’t make any noteworthy friendships until after I moved out. At that point, there was no use seeking a degree. I already had a PhD in cold-blooded murder.”
“Yet you were overpowered by two out of three Volkovs.”
“I have to havesomekind of Achilles’ heel, don’t I? Otherwise, I’d be perfect, and perfect is boring.” He snickers and I elbow his ribs. “Your turn.”
“I’m originally from Texas but attended university here in Salem.”
“Texas? You don’t have an accent. How long did you live there?”
“That’stwoquestions asked out of turn, Poppy.”
I scoff, pausing mid-step and flinging my light in his face. “You already know the highlights of my childhood. It’s only fair that you share yours.”
His jaw flexes, clearly reluctant. “It’s not pretty.”
“Thank all the stars for that. Pretty pasts are as boring as perfect people.”
Brontë sighs, tapping my phone with his. “Lower the interrogation lamp, Nancy Drew. I’ll spill.”
We fall back into step, gazes roaming the shelves that are as disorganized as a hoarder’s home. Minutes crawl by as he considers his story and how to spin it. I watch him from my periphery. His shoulders are high, his movements stiff.
“Not easy, is it? Trying to figure out where to start.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Do you start a book at the end or the beginning?”
“Who taught you such wisdom?” He snorts at my beaming smile. “Back to the beginning, then. I was born in a small Texas town called Valentine. Dantë and I are sons of Noah Abernathy, a Marine with a Purple Heart for taking shrapnel to the chest shortly before we were born. Our half-sister, Virgil, is three years older than us. She shares the same mother, Genevieve Bourbon. We never knew V’s father. Only that his death drove Mama from her own home in France when V was still in diapers. Mama had been a scholar in religious studies, but she got sick when the three of us were young. When she died, she took the best parts of my father with her. He was your stereotypical trauma-case-turned-widower: drunk by dawn, out cold most of the day, ruthless by dusk. On the worst nights, he’d throw us into homemade mazes with rabid bloodhounds, handing us limited rounds and testing our survival skills.
“One night, while V was at a friend’s house, Dantë knocked over a picture of Mama by mistake. Next thing I knew, our father had him by the throat. A single squeeze separated my brother from death, and I acted on instinct. I grabbed the shotgun our father had left on the kitchen table with his empty bottles. I didn’t even give him a warning before I aimed at the back of his head and blew his brains all over the walls. It was on me, on Dantë…it was everywhere. When V got home, the three of us ran. Took our mother’s name, traveled across the country. Eventually, we built a new life here in Salem and found Mama’s family overseas. We visit them when we can, usually around the holidays.” He shrugs. “La fin.The end.”
I stare at him, unblinking as we trek down another cluttered aisle. “I have so many questions.”
“I’ll answer one.”
“…That’s it?”
