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After fifteen minutes of examining every row of shelves in the library, I’m about to give up and leave when I see what looks like a knob behind a stack of books in the corner. The books aren’t on a rack. They are amassed on the floor as if someone is still organizing them. I move closer, and that’s when I see a very small door, similar to a priest’s hole, hidden behind the books on the floor.
With tentative hands, I squat low and open it.
The door swings open inward, and it’s dark at first. I make the crack bigger, and now with the light, I can see inside.
It’s a small room.
I push the door some more until I can fit inside. My knees give out under my body when I scan the room. It’s the room that he spent his happy moments in as a child.
Cain is North.
Cain Archer is North Abbott.
And that means everything is a lie. Everything he said is a lie. No. No. No. I can’t believe he would lie to me because that would mean everything he said—
Oh my God.
All the different personality traits. The warning from Barbara. The comments from Mara hearing things about him. His strangeness with other people.
The path of his career without much publicity. The subtle hints to his past with the little nooks and crannies he built into The Elysian.
The Elysian itself is a clue.
It’s been right in front of my face the entire time.
A house of mirrors.
Homes built to look like their surroundings.
To blend and not be seen. Pretending to be what they’re not . . .
It’s all a lie.
How did I not see it?
I think back to the night he was staring at the television in a trance. The way he grabbed my wrists. So much pain in him channeled against me as I just stood by his side.
Cain is North.
And North is The Compass Killer.
42
Layla
The air is too heavy here.
I need to breathe.
My heart hammers in my chest. It beats so hard that I think it will explode. Around me the world spins, and my ears ring as I weave in and out of the stacks to claw my way back out of what I just found in this library.
My limbs are heavy, like I’m trekking through quicksand, making each step nearly impossible. If I don’t get out of here, I will pass out for certain.
Stumbling through the door, I swallow in a giant gulp as soon as the warm summer air hits my face. Shutting my eyes as I try to regulate my breathing and calm down.
My foot slipping on the old stairs, I lose my balance, and when I fall forward, I collide with a firm chest.
My lids fly open, and I crane my neck back to see who I ran into.
I’m met with the light eyes of a gentleman who’s older than me. He looks to be in his fifties, but he’s let his hair go white, reminding me of Richard Gere. His white hair is a stark contrast to the blue of his eyes, which appear soft and kind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run into you,” he says, and I step back and move to go around him.
As I do, he grabs my elbow, not hard but enough to stop me.
He moves closer; that way only I can hear what he speaks to me. His voice is a low whisper, but his words are unmistakable.
“You aren’t safe in this town; there is someone that will do you harm for digging where you shouldn’t be looking. Pack your bags and head out now. I can’t keep you safe if you stay.”
This man stopped me on purpose. That’s why he grabbed my elbow, too. This son of a bitch knows something. He thinks he’s trying to scare me, but instead, I’m enraged.
The fear and uncertainty I’ve been feeling are quickly replaced with absolute anger. His bumping into me wasn’t an accident, and now I’m getting threats.
Still standing close to each other so no one else can hear, I hiss out, “What do you want? Why did you stop me? And don’t tell me it’s that warning. There’s more. You know more. Tell me now!” I roar.
“I know why you’re here. I know the answers you’re looking for, but you need to stop digging.”
I grit my teeth. “And . . . ?”
“I’ve warned you. Some stones are better left unturned.”
“I don’t believe that one bit. You just don’t want your precious town to be touched. No stone is better left unturned when innocent women died for this secret.”
Stepping back, I place my hands on my hips, no longer caring how loud I get. “Justice needs to happen for those girls, and their families deserve closure.”
“Look at you. You can’t possibly think you’re safe.” His stare is pointed, and then he lifts his hand and touches a lock of hair that rests on my shoulder.
