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Letting out a steady breath, I pocket my cell phone and make my way to the back of the house to Dad’s office. He doesn’t keep it locked. He doesn’t need to. He trusts his family implicitly.
Maybe he shouldn’t.
The thought flashes through my head, but I shake it off. Unlike the archives floor at the Town Hall, everything looks exactly the same in here.
There’s a big desk pushed into one corner, with Dad’s computer sitting proudly atop of it. The bookcase on the opposite wall houses an array of old books and filing boxes, labelled with things like ‘house finances,’ ‘work,’ and one that catches my eye. It isn’t labelled with anything except the Quinctus crest.
A trickle of something goes through me as I approach the shelf. It’s sitting right there, nestled along the rest of the filing boxes.
Hiding in plain sight.
I don’t know what I expect to find inside, but my fingers tremble as I pluck the box off the shelf and sit down on the chair beside the bookcase. Pressing the catch, I lift the lid and peer inside the box. It all looks innocent enough. Paperwork with Mayor Cargill’s official seal. I scan the faded text, quickly realizing it’s my father’s letter of employment. No wonder it looks so old and worn—he’s worked for Phillip Cargill for as long as I can remember. I pull out the stack of paper and flick through the rest, but I don’t understand most of it. There’s nothing here. Feeling frustrated, I straighten them into a pile and start to place them back inside when a slip of paper flutters out.
Gently edging it out, I scan the handwritten scrawl.
It’s a list of names. Names I don’t recognize, all except one.
Gregory Kingsley.
My spine tingles as I clutch the note, wondering what it can possibly mean. Cade’s father was Quinctus. It makes sense my dad would have crossed paths with him, since he and Phillip both worked together.
But my father doesn’t work for Quinctus. He works for the Mayor’s office.
Pulling out my cell phone, I snap a picture of the names and carefully reorganize all the documents. I close the lid and place the box back on the shelf, making sure everything is left exactly as it was. Then I hurry upstairs to my bedroom and turn on my computer.
Once it flickers to life, I pull up Google and open the photo of the list of names. Typing the first one in, I wait for the search to populate.
My brows furrow as I scan the list of results. I’ve never heard of Landon Stanley, but apparently Google has. His name litters newspaper reports and online articles. But it’s one specific headline that piques my interest.
“Investment banker Landon Stanley found dead after car spins on black ice and falls into a ravine.” Huh.
The back of my neck prickles as I move onto the next name. Jeffery Poulter. Prosecutor for a law firm in Mercury Falls, a town not far from Gravestone. The results pull up a similar story. Jeffery was driving home from work when he lost control of his car and hit an oncoming truck. He died before the EMTs got to the hospital.
When I’m done working through the list, I sit back, trying to fit together the pieces of this unexpected puzzle. These men were all in prominent positions of society. Investment bankers. Lawyers. Government officials. And they all died in road traffic accidents.
Just like Gregory Kingsley.
What does it all mean?
And why the hell does my father have their names in a filing box marked with the Quinctus crest?
I pull out my phone and text the only person I trust with this.
Mouse: Can you talk?
My cell phone starts ringing, and I hit answer.
“Bexley,” I breathe.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I think I found something, but I don’t really understand what it all means.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I’m at my uncle’s house. Send me the address, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
