Page 171 of Twisting Beauty

I had to hurry. I had no idea when he’d be back.

The house was dim as I moved through the living room first, then his bedroom, rummaging through drawers and cupboards.

But these were rooms I’d already been in. And there was nothing new to find.

I stood in the living room for a moment, staring at the rickety stairs up to the second floor. The wind whistled from a hole up there and I shivered at the cold rush of air.

Before I could step toward it, my gaze caught on a thin strip of light under a door at the back of the living area, drawing me to it.

I crossed the living room, keeping my steps light. The trapdoor to the tunnels creaked too loud when I stepped on it and I winced, freezing for half a beat before I made myself keep moving.

The dread sat at the back of my throat as I stopped at the door and listened. I didn’t hear any movement inside.

I tried the handle. The door opened, revealing a set of stairs descending into a basement, the light coming up from below, dim and amber.

I listened for another moment, then slowly walked down.

In the basement, shaded floor lamps cast amber pools across a long wooden table covered in glass beakers and Bunsen burners. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the far wall, interrupted only by an electrical cupboard, dusty spines and specimen jars cluttering the shelves.

Faint singing rose up in my head, the same lullaby I kept hearing every time I got near this place, my synesthesia reacting to some unknown smell. It made for an eerie backdrop as I neared the desk along the right-hand wall, materials pinned in clusters above it.

They were surveillance photographs.

Of Powell.

Him at Ravenwood, briefcase under his arm. Getting out of his car. Coming out of a house I didn’t recognize, his hand still half-raised in goodbye.

There was a photocopy of his teaching schedule. Times highlighted in two colors. Hand-drawn schematics of Powell’s office at Ravenwood, doors and windows mapped, entry points circled.

A prickle of unease skittered across my skin, lifting my hair up in goosebumps.

This couldn’t be a coincidence that Deargán had been watching Powell right before he had a breakdown and was removed from this position.

A position that Deargán now held.

My eyes caught on another cluster of photos, centered around a pinned index card. It was Powell, dressed in workout gear, at the counter of a smoothie bar. Another shot caught him taking the cup. Another zoomed tight on the cup itself sitting on the counter.

On the index card was Deargán’s lowercase scrawl.

deliver mis?

The words wouldn’t sit. An abbreviation? Initials? A name? It niggled at me.

On the desk below, among browning papers curled at the edges, a single glass vial lay on its side.

That was mine. I’d stolen that from Alistair’s secret study. I’d given it to Deargán.

I picked it up. It was empty, only a single drop of liquid drying at the bottom.

I turned it over in my fingers to reveal the label.

M15.

I glanced up at the index card. deliver mis?

I glanced back at the vial.

Not M15.