Page 74 of An Academy for Liars

She watched Dante’s expression carefully, but he remained as casual as ever. If the mention of Benedict’s death provoked anything in him, Lennon certainly couldn’t see it.

“There was nothing,” he said, and for some reason, she didn’t believe him.

When classes began,Lennon decided to pay Sawyer a visit at the Fincher Library, where he worked as an apprentice to the head archivist. Because of that apprenticeship, Sawyer was one of the few people on campus with unfettered access to the files of every student that had ever studied at Drayton. Which meant that Sawyer could tell Lennon where Claude had departed to upon his expulsion, assuming he was willing to help her.

The Fincher Library—named after the head boy of Drayton’s inaugural class—was widely known to be the second-most-haunted building on Drayton’s campus (the first being Logos House). While the school’s official stance was to eschew any belief in the paranormal, its founder, John Drayton, was a paranormal enthusiast, and was said to have hosted a number of drunken séances in the library. Drayton himself didn’t believe in ghosts, but he found it highly entertaining to watch feebleminded paranormal enthusiasts succumb to their own anxieties.

Lennon, like Drayton, didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believethere was something strange about the Fincher Library, something in the atmosphere there, like the charged quality of the air just before a thunderstorm. The library was about as grand as the rest of the campus, but with its looming cathedral ceilings and polished stone floors it looked more like an art museum. Nothing in the space invited touch or exploration. There were few desks or chairs, and the books themselves—old but impeccable and packed tightly on the shelves—may as well have been behind glass.

Upon entering, Lennon walked up to the front desk, where Sawyer stood behind an archaic monitor, the screen throwing a harsh glare across his face.

“Have you heard about Claude’s expulsion?” she asked him. It was the first time they’d spoken since he returned to campus the night before.

“Of course I heard. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“Claude told me he thought Dante killed Benedict,” said Lennon.

“Claude says a lot of things, especially when he’s drunk and angry.”

“But does he lie? In your experience?”

Sawyer paused for a beat, considering. “Not intentionally. But he’s grieving and sick and confused. I wouldn’t put too much stock into anything he says, given his state.”

“So you think there’s nothing to it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Sawyer heaved a sigh, shuffled some papers that were already mostly in order. “I’m saying that when you spend enough time around here, you learn not to involve yourself in the messes of other people. Nothing good comes of it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Lennon. “And on that note, I washoping you could pull Claude’s file for me? I need his most recent address.”

“Lennon—”

“I just need to ask him about something he said before he got kicked out.”

Sawyer, staying true to his beliefs about not sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, didn’t ask for particulars. “You should really leave that alone.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. Come on, please? For a friend?”

“Who’s the friend in question here? You or Claude?”

“Both of us,” said Lennon.

He considered the request with his head bowed. “Fine.”

The archives beneath Fincher Library were strange and cavernous, like a whale’s belly or the skeletal interior of some primordial beast. The ceilings were low enough that anyone over six-three would have to duck a bit to keep from bumping their head. The walls were bathed in a flickering, jaundiced light, and the narrow alleys that ran between the bookshelves were so long that the perspective warped a bit when Lennon gazed down them. Even when she squinted, she couldn’t see the far wall. “Holy shit—”

Sawyer shushed her. “Keep it down.”

He led her through one of the narrow alleys between shelves, muttering softly to himself as he went. When it became apparent that they were alone, he relaxed some, taking the time to point out some of his favorite offerings stored in the archives: a letter penned by John Drayton’s mother, wherein she relays home remedies to treat a winter cold (boiled turnips, tallow poultices, mustard with raw onions). A scarred Ouija board that John Drayton was said to favor during weekly séances. A log of all of the school’s expenditures that featureda number of strange items, like several sheaves of horsehair, a set of dentures, several miles’ worth of thick nautical rope, and other oddities.

“We keep the newer student files at the back of the archives,” Sawyer explained, leading Lennon to the back of the collection, where the shelves were steel instead of wood and the files themselves were crisper, the papers stark white instead of yellowed with age. He began to scan through them, still muttering to himself. “One of the archivists told me she updated Claude’s file just after he left, so it should be here…”

But as Sawyer walked deeper into the newly updated parts of the archive, Lennon stalled in front of a dark cabinet with many drawers. One of those drawers was just ajar, and when Lennon pulled it open it was almost as though someone had persuaded her to do it, the motion detached from her own mind.

Within—behind a sheet of glass—was an arrangement of bones so strange and warped that the species of the creature they belonged to was virtually indistinguishable. But on closer inspection, Lennon saw that the bone shards were human. There was the curve of a skull cap. A rib cracked in half. A small scattering of shattered teeth.

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