Page 89 of Our Darkest Summer
I moved further down the hall.Second door on the left, that’s what Samantha said, so I slipped into the room behind the first door on the right. I held back my breath, closing the door behind me as gently as I could, and then I searched for the light switch.
A dim, yellowish glow flickered to life, casting long shadows across the space. The room was small, cluttered and messy, but calculated. Papers were strewn across the desk, some crumpled,others folded like they’d been read and reread a hundred times. I stepped closer, running my eyes over a few of them.
My fingers curled around the edges of the paper. These were poisons. Poisons that caused heart attacks.
I swallowed, shoving the notes back into place, before turning to the bed.
I barely paid attention to the half-stripped mattress, the sheets kicked toward the floor, and walked to the nightstand. I ran my fingers over an old, dog-eared book sitting atop a coaster, a pen resting diagonally over its open spine, then I curled my fingers around the handle of the top drawer. Stuck. I yanked a little harder, and the wood groaned, before sliding open with a reluctant creak.
My stomach tightened.
Pill bottles. Dozens of them, labels curling at the edges, names printed in bold. Antipsychotics. Mood stabilizers. Antidepressants.
I turned them around.Prescribed for delusional disorder.
I exhaled sharply, pushing the drawer closed.What the hell was this?
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I straightened and turned toward the wall, toward the corkboard hanging on it. It was covered in pinned notes, faded newspaper clippings, concert tickets, and photos. But there was one specific thing that made the blood cool in my veins. From the dead center, a familiar mask was smiling back at me.
My stomach dropped.
Samantha was wearing the same Greek theatre mask that haunted my dreams. Our lives.
I took a slow step backward, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I hadn’t expected to find anything. Not really. Or maybe I was just hoping I wouldn’t. But now—I needed to get out of here. My hand was already on the handle when I stopped. No. If I wanted to be a crime journalist, I needed to do this. I swallowed,and pulled out my phone, sending a text. Then I walked back to the drawer and opened it again. Whatever this was, I had to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter Forty
Kinsley
The low hum of Thomas’car was the only sound in the quiet night. I stared out the window, watching the town pass by. It was strange how empty the streets were here at night. I flexed my fingers, glancing down at my phone.
AALIYAH
I’m sorry u had to leave! Let me know if Connor feels any better… I hate being sick.
Yes. Our not-so-perfect lie about why I had to leave was that Connor fell sick and, for some reason, he needed my help. I pushed the phone into my pocket.
“We should have talked to her.” My voice was steady, but the frustration coiled tight in my chest.
Thomas shook his head, his eyes fixed on the road. “No.” His tone was calm, firm, which only made the frustration burn hotter.
I scoffed. “Why not?”
His fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the wheel. “We don’t have real proof yet.”
I frowned, my thoughts spiraling. “You saw what was in that room. The pill bottles. Delusional disorder is a serious illness. And the mask?”
“I sent the photos to Kevin.” He sighed. “The mask picture? It was taken in their high school’s drama club. Anyone can access those masks.”
I gritted my teeth. “And what about her mom? Lizzie’s last word wasHyacinth, and Samantha could’ve easily planted the ring in Braxton’s house.”
Thomas finally glanced at me, his dark eyes sharp with thought. “They’re still just pieces, Sage. We don’t have a full picture yet.”
I let out a frustrated breath, tipping my head against the seat. He was right. I knew he was. I’d studied this. Evidence, proof, and methodical steps. But knowing didn’t make the waiting easier.
“Poirot never made a move until he had everything.” Thomas’ voice was softer now, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I turned to look at him. He must have been just as frustrated as I was—probably even more—yet he was calming me. And he was right again. Poirot never accused anyone until he had all the facts. Until he could prove his case beyond a doubt.
