Page 92 of Tessa and Nash

She runs her fingers along the desk edge. Then her eyes narrow.

“What?”

She crouches, leaning toward the underside of the desk.

“There,” she murmurs.

I crouch beside her, and I see it: a narrow drawer, almost hidden, wedged beneath the window ledge. The wood blends in, the seam too tight unless you’re looking for it.

Tessa’s fingers curl around the tiny brass pull.

I watch her profile. The line of her cheekbone. The way her breath catches.

“This is it,” I say softly.

Tessa swallows. “Yes.”

Then she yanks the drawer open.

It slides out with a dry scrape.

Inside, lying flat as if placed carefully and never touched again, is a leather-bound journal.

The leather is cracked with age. The edges are brittle. The spine is worn and stained as if someone held it with dirty hands in bad weather.

Beneath it is a folded map. Hand-drawn. Old paper creased and thick, the kind that doesn’t tear easily.

And right there, visible even before Tessa picks it up, are two names written in careful pencil along the bottom corner.

McCoy.

Long.

My pulse stops.

Then starts again too fast.

Tessa lifts the journal first, careful even though she pretends she isn’t. The cover gives slightly under her fingers. It might crumble.

I reach for the map.

“Wait,” she says sharply.

I freeze.

She stares at me, eyes hard. “If that tears⁠—”

“I won’t,” I promise, and I mean it. “And actually, before we even touch anything, we should photograph it, right? For evidence or whatever?”

And, to be fair, in case it does tear.

We both grab out our phones and snap photos. A selection of everything as backup.

Then Tessa nods once and opens the journal more carefully to read.

The pages whisper as they part. Handwriting fills them. A tight, slanted script, ink faded but still legible.

Tessa’s eyes flick across the first page.