This chamber of BRS’s clubhouse was quite possibly the largest, the reason for which was rather blatant. It was chock-full of organized mobile storage shelves, and when I carefully slid a section of one out of place, I discovered a row of beautifully framed paintings hung at equal intervals on the racks. Further inspection of the other storage units revealed similar findings, but it was not until I recognized the unmistakable strokes of Pablo Picasso’s hand in one painting that I realized what I had stumbled upon. The Black Raptor Society had taken an interest in rare art, and from what I already knew of them, I doubted that they had acquired these pieces in any kind of legal fashion. They had not merely collected paintings though. Deeper in the room, glass display cases housed sculptures, ceramics, and historic artifacts, and deeper still, I discovered a modest collection of human skulls and bones.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I took carefully focused photos of everything. Then, having had enough of BRS’s clubhouse to last until I was ready to get a PhD, I turned to leave. However, in the very back corner of the room, behind the last of the storage shelves, a massive chest freezer stood in stark contrast to the priceless artwork around it. For a moment, I considered leaving it unopened, but if I was going to expose all of BRS’s secrets, then I needed to be aware of as many of them as possible, so with a soft grunt, I heaved the heavy lid of the freezer upward and shined my flashlight inside.
George O’Connor’s empty, sunken eyes bore into mine.
The lid slammed shut with a bang that echoed through the room, and a horrified shriek let itself out of my lungs before I could subdue it. I clapped a hand over my mouth, muffling choked sobs, and knelt next to the freezer.
O’Connor was dead. Yet more frightening still, he had been killed for poking his nose into the business of the Black Raptor Society. I would’ve been a fool to assume anything else. My quick glimpse at O’Connor’s bloodied body was enough to confirm that he had been beaten into submission, and no other reason would explain the frozen corpse hidden in a secret, underground room. It was one thing to know that the society manipulated student affairs; it was another thing to become aware of the fact that BRS had facilitated a murder. The more I thought about it, the less oxygen found its way to my brain. Light-headed and heart palpitating, I gripped the edge of the freezer to pry myself up from the floor. I had to get out of BRS’s headquarters as soon as possible. I’d taken up O’Connor’s quest, and for all I knew, the Black Raptor Society had already put a price on my head.
It was easy enough to find my way out of the artwork room and down the corridor to the main entry of the clubhouse, but the brick stairway that led up to the Waverly library hindered my escape. I took the steps two at a time. It wasn’t long until my breath came out in short gasps and my head began to swim. As I propelled myself upward, my hands braced on the brick wall to either side of me, I could barely make out the sight of my shoes. Climbing my way back up to the Waverly library was far more torturous than the descent into the clubhouse. My thighs burned with the effort, but the image of O’Connor’s body, stuffed into a freezer like some sort of hunted game, prevented me from pausing longer than a few seconds to recuperate. After what seemed like hours, I finally fell through the doorway at the top of the steps.
Wiping away the dried tears that had crusted at the corners of my eyes, I shoved the bookshelf door back into place, wrenched the ring from the hidden keyhole, and concealed the space once again with the Latin book. I fled then, racing around the spiral of shelves as quickly as my aching legs would allow.
The main wing of the Waverly library now held no comfort at all. The loud stomp of my boots across the marble floor echoed throughout the building as I careened through the inner pair of doors, across the entryway, and past the checkout desk. I pushed open the outer door, and a blast of cold air threatened to thrust me back into the library, but I wrenched the hood of my coat up and powered through it. Unfortunately, at the bottom of the steps, I slammed straight into a firm, muscled chest clothed in an expensive tan trench coat.
“Ooph! Watch where you’re going!” said a deep voice.
When I looked up, I saw that the owner of the trench coat was none other than Donovan Davenport. I lurched backward, nearly tripping over the bottom step of the library building, but Donovan reached out, caught me by the upper arm, and hauled me to my feet.
“You again,” he said gruffly. “What are you doing here?”
“Studying,” I snapped back. I dislodged myself from Donovan’s grasp. All of my fear had morphed into rage. Did Donovan have a hand in O’Connor’s murder? “What else would I be doing at the library?”
“It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning,” Donovan pointed out. “Who the hell studies this late?”
“Yeah, well, I’m several semesters behind on my thesis,” I said, deciding that a true story was also the best lie for this sort of situation. “I can’t control when the muse hits.”
“The muse?”
“Yeah,” I huffed. The puzzle box, swaddled in the inner folds of my winter jacket, poked
