Page 19 of Salem's Fall
“Dead?”I repeat, unable to process at first. “What do you mean?”
“There was an accident. He was hit by a car earlier today, crossing the street near his apartment…” He trails off, the weight of his words hanging in the silence.
For a moment, the world feels like it’s tilting. I don’t know what’s up and what’s down. I didn’t even like Mark, it’s true, but he was still a part of my life, still a constant presence at the firm. And now he’s just… gone?
“James, I know this is sudden,” Quinn says gently. “Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow? Get some rest. And if you need anything, let me know, okay?”
“Okay.” I swallow, my throat dry. I feel oddly detached, like I’m watching myself from a distance. “Thanks, Quinn. Um, talk to you later…”
I hang up and stare at the phone, my thoughts drifting in a haze.
Mark is dead.
I feel a strange emptiness, a dull ache somewhere in the back of my mind. A bit sad, yes, but more numbness than emotion, like my brain can’t quite catch up to the reality of it.
Lucky nudges my hand with his nose, as if he knows exactly how I feel. I grab him close and snuggle into his soft fur for a moment, needing the warmth and connection of another living being.
A sudden ping from my laptop catches my attention. I turn, glancing at the screen, seeing a new email notification. The subject line reads simply: “YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.”
What happens next almost seems to occur in slow motion. Lucky hisses softly, staring at the screen with those wide, yellow eyes, ears flattening as I click to open the email. It’s a single image—a photo of what looks like a street, taken at dusk. The headlights of a car are caught in the frame, casting long shadows across the asphalt. In the corner of the picture is a crumpled, broken body. Blood and guts spew forth. Bones twisted at angles bones aren’t supposed to twist. There’s no mistaking things. It’s Mark, lying motionless, dead on the ground.
Bile rises in my throat as I stare at the grisly image, myheart hammering against my ribs. Someone was there. Someone took this picture and sent it to me. Someone wanted me to see this. Mark’s death was no accident, like Quinn said.
No, this was deliberate.
And this email isn’t just a warning—it’s a threat.
Ilie awake, tossing and turning all night. I can’t stop thinking about Mark’s death and the cryptic, threatening email that followed. Can’t shake the image of Mark lying crumpled on the street, dead. My bedroom feels too small, the air too thin, like the walls are closing in. I try to steady my breathing, fear echoing in my head.
Mark didn’t just die. Someone killed him.
And I could be next.
Even when morning comes, the sunlight of a new day streaming through my bedroom window, I don’t feel any better. Quinn told me to take the day off, but the last thing I want is to sit at home, alone, and let my anxiety and fear fester. Staying home all day would only mean facing the empty hours and filling them with what-ifs and unanswerable questions.
Instead, I feed Lucky and make breakfast for Madison, and then decide to make my way to the office where at least I can be surrounded by the mundane normalcy of files and paperwork. I’ll feel safer within the high-rise walls of Whitehall & Rowe, where I can pretend, if only for a few hours, that things haven’t fallen completely off course.
I step off the elevator and pass by Mark’s office on the way to my own. The door is ajar, the light still on, as if waiting forhis return. His workspace looks just as it did yesterday, when he was still alive. His “Legal Genius at Work” coffee mug still sits half-full, papers strewn across the surface in disarray. Whatever he was working on, now left unfinished. I feel a heaviness in my chest at the sight. Something about it seems painfully sad.
I pause as a folder on the corner of his desk catches my eye. “BLACKHOLLOW” is written on the top of the file in big blocky letters. I should probably keep walking, but something about the folder calls to me like a moth to a flame. I peek around the corner—his secretary, Penny, isn’t in. Perhaps Quinn gave her the day off, too.
Before I can lose my nerve, I sneak inside Mark’s office and beeline straight for his desk. Quickly, I sift through the folder and his files, the rustling of paper sounding too loud in the otherwise silent building. Part of me feels guilty, like I’m crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, rummaging through a dead man’s papers. Except… one could argue they aren’treallyMark’s papers. Technically, all attorney work product and client files belong to the client—or at the very least, the firm, since the case is still ongoing. Besides, these papers will ultimately make their way to Quinn’s desk and then mine anyway.
As I read through the files, a pattern starts to emerge: articles printed from old archives about secret symbols and shadowy cults, notes on ritualistic practices and grisly sacrifices, and references to the dark history of nearby Salem’s Fall—a place steeped in mysticism, infamous for the witch trials that took place there hundreds of years ago. Mark had clearly been delving deep into the occult aspects of the case, and the more I read, the more I realize this angle was something he took seriously. His notes are excellent, incredibly thorough. Mark was a shitty person, but I can’t deny he was an excellent lawyer.
One symbol in particular catches my eye: a curved spiral with jagged lines radiating outward, intersecting with an inverted pentagram. Mark has drawn it multiple times throughout his notes. It’s the same mark that was carved into Vivienne Van Buren’s body and written in her blood on the walls and floors of the bedroom where she was found. On one of the pages, underneath the symbol, Mark has scribbled the words: “The Mark of the Veil – Blood Rite ritual – The Order of the Veil.”
I step back, my pulse quickening.
The Mark of the Veil? Blood Rite?
What the hell is that?
“Woodsen? What are you doing?” Quinn asks, suddenly appearing in the hallway and startling me so badly I drop the folder. “I told you to take the day off.”
“I know.” I swallow hard, like a student in trouble with her favorite professor. “But my head wouldn’t stop spinning. I needed a distraction.”
He walks over to me, his hand settling on my shoulder, sending a wave of warmth through me. His expression is a mix of concern and exasperation, but underneath, there’s something softer. “It’s been a rough couple of hours,” he says. “You need time to process.”
