When I showed Wes how the onyx ring fit into the false wall to set the bookcase in motion, he swore audibly. The expletive floated away, echoing back from the stained-glass dome. I shushed Wes and motioned for him to follow me down the deep stairwell.
There was no sign of Donovan as we reached the marble entryway. Everything was as I had left it, dark and undisturbed. I flipped on the light switch, illuminating the BRS logo and the raptor on the wall. Wes examined the mantle but made no comment.
“Their meeting room,” I explained, pointing out certain rooms as we moved into the corridor. “The library. I found their charter in there. It has all the names of their previous and current members.”
“You’d think a secret society wouldn’t have stuff like that just lying around,” commented Wes, glancing through the window of the library.
“I don’t think they ever expected a nonmember to break in here.”
He shook his head. “Arrogant.”
We reached the door to the art room. With a deep breath, I shoved it open.
“Whoa,” said Wes, taking in the expanse of paintings and sculptures. “Is this all—”
“Rare and illegally obtained?” I finished. “Probably. O’Connor’s over here.”
Together, we approached the freezer. I swallowed, feeling bile rise at the back of my throat. Seeing O’Connor’s body once was quite enough for me. I didn’t think I’d be able to take it again.
“Can you open it?” I asked Wes, turning away from the freezer. “Honestly, I might vomit if I have to see that again.”
Wes steeled himself with a deep breath then lifted the lid. “Uh, Nicole?”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that. There’s—there’s no body.”
“What?”
I whirled around and leaned over the open freezer. Sure enough, O’Connor was nowhere to be found. The freezer was empty and sterile without any indication that there had been a dead body in it just a couple hours before.
“Are you sure—” began Wes.
“Yes, I’m sure! Donovan must’ve moved him.”
“On his own? That’s a lot of dead weight. Oh, God, that was a terrible choice of words. I’m sorry.”
I smacked Wes’s arm, glaring at him. “I was right about this whole underground cubbyhole, wasn’t I? But a dead body down here is too much of a stretch?”
“Okay, okay,” conceded Wes, raising his hands in defeat. “It’s just that I don’t know what to report to Wilson.”
“That this place actually exists might be a good place to start,” I said. “At the very least, they could start an investigation into BRS.”
“And what do you plan on doing about O’Connor’s missing body?” asked Wes. “I know you won’t just let that go.”
“I have an idea.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of idea?”
“I want to do what O’Connor couldn’t. I’m going to report on all the shit BRS has done.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“By writing my thesis paper on the society.”
In the days following, I spent every spare moment at the library. My stakeout position, a desk partially concealed by a portion of the nonfiction section, had a convenient view of the entrance to the Rapere Wing. As I began to outline the specifics of my thesis paper, beginning with the history of the Black Raptor Society, I kept an eye on every single person that passed between the pillars. Surveillance was dull work, but there was no other way for me to determine who was actively involved in O’Connor’s murder. I’d spent hours putting together a booklet of all the current BRS members, complete with pictures from the faculty and student ID cards that O’Connor had collected. It was a reference tool mostly, so that I could easily identify whoever walked into the Rapere Wing. To my great annoyance though, I hadn’t caught any members of BRS on the move yet. After days without a single sighting, I began to question my previous knowledge. Perhaps the clubhouse wasn’t utilized as often as I originally thought.
By the end of the week, I’d made significant progress on my thesis. The outline was finished, from beginning to end, and I’d started to write my first draft. Finally getting the work out of my head and into the real world was like emerging from the sea, having fought off a set of waves that kept me under, and taking a deep, desperate breath. Unfortunately, the catharsis didn’t last long. I still hadn’t figured out a way to propose my thesis topic to my advisor. Catherine Flynn would certainly not approve of an exposé detailing the illegality of a secret society that she helped to run.
On that Friday, I decided that my stakeouts in the library were fruitless. I would spend one last day at the desk in my secluded corner of the library, but if my bad luck stuck and the BRS members remained AWOL, I would have to find a different way to confront them. The library was a little noisier that morning, full of students trying to cram in some last minute studying for their end-of-the-week tests. The babble of conversation didn’t bother me, so I made my way toward my desk near the pillars.
I dropped my bag on the table and drew out the desk chair, but as I plopped down into it, the entire piece of furniture collapsed beneath me. I hit the floor of the library with a muffled thud, bashing my elbow against one of the splintered armrests.
Though a few heads had turned at the sound of my mild accident, no one bothered to come to my rescue. My cheeks burned as I cradled my bruised elbow and examined the broken chair from my position on the burgundy carpet. It was only when I turned over the seat of the chair that I realized someone had removed all of the screws that were meant to hold the legs in.
Officially pissed off
