Page 56 of Hawk & Sparrow

Footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching fast. Vesper closed the desk drawer quickly, then ducked into the wardrobe. She barely had time to hide before the office door opened. Through a crack, she made out Charles Belver. He was frowning, as always, but now he looked particularly perturbed. Slowly, he surveyed the room. Vesper froze when his eyes fixed on the wardrobe, but then he looked away and moved around the desk to stand where she had been just seconds before. He opened the drawer and sifted through the papers. His frown deepened, and Vesper drew in a sharp breath.

There was a spot of blood on one of the papers.

Vesper glanced down at her hand, her stomach tight. She had bled through the handkerchief. Her breath hitched as Mr. Belver studied the bloodstain. Then abruptly, he looked up, shoved the paper back into his desk drawer, then charged out of the room. Vesper stayed crouched inside of the wardrobe, her heart drumming hard against her rib cage.

That had been too close. If Belver had found her in his office, if he’d found out what she’d been looking for …

Another chill ran the length of Vesper’s body. If Charles Belver really had been the one who’d murdered Francis Gladwell, she had no doubt that he’d murder again to protect his secrets. She needed to leave this place, fast. She waited a few more minutes to ensure he wasn’t going to return, then carefully crawled out of the wardrobe. She rewrapped her bandaged hand to ensure it didn’t bleed anymore, tucked the journal into a hidden pocket of her dress, then peeked outside. The hall was, to her immense relief, empty again. Vesper slipped through the doors, then practically ran down the steps two at a time. She was on the last step when:

“My wife tells me you had an accident in our new aviary.”

Vesper whirled around so fast she nearly lost her balance. Charles Belver was standing at the top of the stairs. There was a coolness in the man’s eyes that immediately set Vesper on edge. Did he know she’d been in his office? Did he know she had the journal? She took a deep breath and schooled her expression.

“Just a small scratch,” she said with a cheer she certainly didn’t feel. “Fortunately, I believe I’ll make a full recovery.”

Mr. Belver nodded slowly. “That’s very good to hear.” He began to descend the stairs. Nothing in his expression or posture changed, but there was menace in every step. Vesper had to fight the urge to step back as he approached her.

“Do be careful, Miss Evans,” he murmured. “I would hate for you to have a more serious accident due to … carelessness.”

“Of course,” said Vesper. “I will.”

The barest hint of a smile touched Charles Belver’s face as he offered a final bow, then skirted around her to go down the hall.

Vesper watched the man walk away, unease prickling down her neck.

EIGHTEEN

SUNDAY, 13TH OF NOVEMBER—10:31 A.M.

There were forty-four empty lines on the sheet of paper placed on Vesper’s desk.

She knew there were forty-four lines because she’d counted them, over and over again, for the better part of the last half hour. She was seated at her desk in the Globe’s newsroom, tapping her pen against a cup of tea that had gone cold a while ago. She frowned at the blank paper, then sat back in her chair, annoyed.

There was plenty of work on her docket. She needed to come up with at least two pieces for next week’s style section, and she still needed to do a write-up on the city’s upcoming midterm elections. But try as she might, Vesper couldn’t find the words. She’d woken up early that morning, determined to get real work done while the office was quiet. But every time she set pen to paper and tried to write, something stopped her.

Charles Belver.

Vesper flexed her right hand, then winced. Mrs. Belver had eventually found her again and bandaged it properly as promised. The cut was healing well, but it still hurt slightly. Vesper stared at the wound, then thought of the malice she’d seen in Charles Belver’s eyes. His words in her head were almost taunting

I would hate for you to have a more serious accident due to … carelessness.

She grimaced. Maybe the words should have scared her more than they did, but really, they just made her angry. Charles Belver was like any man with power in this city, someone who thought they could bully and intimidate those who he perceived were beneath him.

She would not be intimidated.

She flexed her hand again, ignored the pain, then went back to her paper. If she wasn’t going to work on her assignments for the Globe, then she’d pivot to her ongoing investigation. It was now the thirteenth of November, which meant she had exactly two weeks and three days to vindicate Maximilian and get the money the Globe needed, but she was stuck. She now had a primary suspect—Mr. Belver—but she had no definitive way to prove it. Speculation without corroboration wasn’t journalism, and it certainly wasn’t enough to clear Maximilian’s name. For the thousandth time, she thought about what would happen if she didn’t meet the December first deadline, of what would happen to the Globe, to her.

“Miss Evans?”

Vesper looked up. Tom was standing in the doorway, a coat folded over his arm and a hat in his hands. He cocked his head. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Vesper sat up again, trying to look alert. “Perfectly fine.”

“We’re heading to the farmer’s market.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”

Vesper shook her head. “I’ve got too much work, Tom.” She gestured to the paper on her desk, remembered it was blank, then moved it out of his line of vision. Her editor’s eyes narrowed.

“Miss Evans, you know better than most that I don’t say this often…,” he said slowly. “But I wonder if you should take a break. It seems all you’ve done this month is work.”