Page 82 of Bound By Fury

And on the other side of the map: Sandra DuPont.

Two dead girls, one missing… and me.

Vomit claws its way up my throat, and I have to swallow it down. Once. Twice.

Daisy unfolds a yellowing paper with a half ring coffee stain in the bottom corner.

“This fell out of that… thing…”

LAND TRANSFER NOTICE:

BEAUMONT–CLARK TO BILTMORE–MATSOUKAS

I think back to the articles I read for my history project.

“This must be from when they took over the land of that old school that burnt down,” I say. I don’t mention the witches. The lynching.

I check the date of the notice. November 10, 1926.

“But why would he have that in his cabinet? What does it matter? It’s been a hundred years,” Sam says.

“I don’t know…” I pull out my phone and snap a picture of what we’ve found.

I can’t understand the connection between the two documents. Two bloodlines from the map are listed on the land transfer, Beaumont and Clark, but why are the other names circled? My name linked through the generations to a Maggie Willow? And there’s a fourth surname of interest, Walker.

I carefully refold the large maplike thing and tuck the document back inside before placing it into the drawer.

“What are you doing?” Missy asks.

“We can’t take the portfolio,” I say quietly, suddenly sapped of energy. “He’ll know someone took it, and then all of the sneaking and deleting of footage would be pointless.”

I close the cabinet, and Daisy puts the key back where she found it.

All the while my mind is twirling endless circles.

Where is Fiona?

This at least confirmed my suspicions that she was tied to the Beaumont Clark School. Turns out maybe I am, too.

Both of us were invited here on a full scholarship. Both of us are legacy students. I remember what Missy said about how Fiona changed when she got to campus. Am I changing in the same way?

If those women protecting the school were witches—if I have some kind of magic of my own—does that mean Fiona does, too?

Or…did?

I gulp when I picture those other two familiar names. The memorial page in the yearbook. The half-rusted bench plaque.

My teeth are nearly chattering by the time we make it out of the building and into the night. When we reach the dorm Missy goes back to her room, her shoulders slumped and her face twisted into a scowl.

Daisy and Sam linger by my door, unsure of what to say.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, their hand resting on my forearm.

“I just—what does it even mean?” Daisy counters, frustration lacing her tone. “I feel like we’re missing something, or like—like you’re not telling us something.” Her brows pinch together. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are hard.

“I have no idea,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “Maybe they’re tracking who the land belonged to as part of a historical preservation type thing.” I shrug.

“So why the locked drawer?” Sam asks curiously.