Page 42 of When You're Alone

Theodore hesitated, then exhaled. “Alright.” He pulled open a deep drawer in his desk, rummaging until he found a tarnished old box. Inside was an oversized key, dark with age and rust. He placed it gently on the desk. Then from another drawer, he retrieved a heavy flashlight—something akin to a torch, sturdier than the one Finn had carried before.

“We'll need some light and the key,” Theodore said before pocketing them. “We can’t lose any more lives tonight. I just hope you know what you’re doing. ”

Finn flicked his gaze to Theodore. “So do I,” he murmured.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Finn and Theodore stepped into the Monarch Club’s grand library, still feeling the tension from the frantic events in the basement and the fallout of Jeremy Ford’s death. The space was subdued, lit by only a few well-placed lamps that gave off a warm golden glow against the shelves of old leather-bound tomes. Despite the ornate surroundings, Finn’s mind was on high alert—he half expected the killer to leap out from behind the rows of books.

Waiting by one of the reading alcoves stood James Rutherford, Charles Blackwood, and Mason Wilkins—the last three remaining players from the infamous Mansfield Card Game. James had his arms folded, foot tapping in agitation. Blackwood anxiously wrung his hands, while Mason shifted from foot to foot, looking like he might bolt at the slightest provocation.

Finn arched an eyebrow and mustered a wry smile. “What a coincidence—all three of you survived that card game in 2003. And here you are, the only ones desperate to leave through this old secret exit… other than Terrance Mansfield himself, of course.”

James Rutherford grimaced, Mason Wilkins paled, and Charles Blackwood turned an even more pronounced shade of nervous. Mason shifted uneasily, clearing his throat. “And why, uh… why isDevlin Fostercoming with us?”

“Let’s just say,” Finn replied smoothly, still using his false accent, “I have a vested interest in not being implicated. If a killer’s running around and the press show up, I don’t want to see my name plastered everywhere.”

Charles Blackwood, looking spooked, shot Finn a suspicious glare. “For all we know, youarethe killer. Maybe you’re Terrance Mansfield, all done up in prosthetics or something.”

Finn let out a short laugh. “I doubt any amount of plastic surgery could make Terrance Mansfield look two decades younger. Come on. Let’s not be melodramatic.”

Theodore cleared his throat, glancing around as though paranoid that uniformed officers might walk in any second. “Look, we have to be quick before the police do a full sweep. We can’t be caught sneaking around, or we’ll be detained.”

Charles Blackwood straightened his suit jacket. “I have a plane to catch. If you think I’m sticking around while people get their throats cut, you’re mad.”

James Rutherford’s brow furrowed, tension evident in every line of his posture. “I’ve heard the old story that there’s a hidden door in the library leading to some ‘old way’ passage, but I never knew the exact details.” He leveled a meaningful look at Theodore. “We’re running out of time. Where is it?”

Theodore pressed his lips together in disapproval. “Weshouldbe cooperating with the authorities, but… fine.” He produced a key from his pocket and strode toward a tall bookcase near the far wall. He removed two thick volumes from a middle shelf and inserted the key into a hidden hole at the back. A little grunt escaped him as he tried to turn it—the old lock resisted. Finn stepped in, adding his hand and strength to Theodore's until the mechanism gave a resounding click.

With a creak, the bookcase swung out like a door. A gust of cool, stale air drifted from the revealed passage. Finn took a quick glance at theotherlibrary door—the ornate one leading to the secret poker room—then quipped with a smirk, “An ornate door to a forbidden card den, and now a secret passage behind the bookshelf. Does anyone doactual readinghere?”

Theodore snorted. “They’re all too drunk to care,” he said, shaking his head.

Finn chuckled but then raised a hand. “Hold on. I need to make sure a driver can pick me up. Business calls, you know.” He fished out his phone and typed a quick text to Amelia:“Going in a secret passageway in the library. Get on radio.”

He pocketed his phone, and the group ventured inside—Theodore leading, the others following in single file. Theodore flicked an old switch on the wall. The corridor was cramped, walls made of rough stone, the air thick with dust. Weak overhead bulbs flickered at intervals, revealing an uneven floor, but long stretches of passage were in complete darkness.

“Most of the bulbs have long since gone out,” Theodore said.

“How far does it go?” Finn asked, glancing around warily.

Theodore peered back. “It winds through crawlspaces between the Club’s walls, then descends. Eventually, it comes out in a cellar that connects to a safe house a few streets over. The safe house is owned by the club.”

Finn angled his flashlight downward, noticing a scattering of footprints visible in the thin layer of dust. “Looks like we’re not the first ones down here recently,” he observed quietly. “I thought you said no one’s been here for years.”

Theodore shrugged, tension visible in his posture. “Last time I remember was a board member sneaking out to dodge paparazzi. Could’ve been more than a year or two ago, though.”

Finn thought the prints looked brand new, but decided not to share this. He shifted the beam onto the three men ahead of him—James Rutherford, Charles Blackwood, and Mason Wilkins. “So,” he said lightly, “any of you heard from Terrance Mansfield since he vanished in 2003? Maybe a postcard from some tropical paradise?”

Mason’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “N-not a peep.” His stammer betrayed his anxiety.

Finn pursed his lips. “Strange how someone can vanish without a trace. Hiding in the shadows for so long.” He paused, letting the tension mount. “Until recently, anyway.”

Charles Blackwood rubbed his arms as though cold. “I don’t want to discuss it. I just want out of this damned place.”

They continued, the passage sloping downward. Finn noticed several other passages slipping off at right angles to the main one. He wondered where they went. The floor grew slick underfoot, and the walls narrowed. The group slowed, stepping carefully past potential pitfalls. Suddenly, Mason Wilkins gave a startled yelp—his foot slipped, and he toppled sideways. With a shriek, he fell into a black pit off to the side of the corridor. The hole had no guardrail or warning sign—just a yawning gap in the gloom.

“Mason!” Finn lunged, catching the man’s hand just in time to stop him plummeting. Mason’s eyes were wide, fear etched into every line of his face.

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