by Ivy Fox
But this isn’t a Stephen King novel, and I’m not a helpless heroine on the verge of tripping into an unknown ghastly fate on All Hallow’s Eve. I’m just a woman who got too caught up in her research for her book to even remember to eat dinner until her stomach started to grumble in disapproval. Hence the walk into this secluded part of the library in search of some form of nourishment.
I tilt my head to the side, taking in what is on tonight’s menu, tapping my thigh repeatedly with my phone.
‘This is fucking depressing, Emma,’ my subconscious castigates as I try to choose between the varied empty calories sealed in small packaging on the other side of the glass.
I push the self-deprecating thought from my mind, slipping a dollar bill into the slot, only for it to be spit back at me. I flatten the bill on the vending machine’s surface and try my chances a second time and then a third.
“Even the vending machine thinks your dinner choices for tonight are pathetic,” I mumble to myself after my fourth unsuccessful attempt.
Luckily the machine eats up my dollar bill the fifth time around. I take a step back and search yet again for my meal, my gaze landing on a vanilla cupcake with pink frosting. It’s probably a week old, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Why the fuck not?” I shrug, pressing the combination on the keypad.
I cross my arms over my chest as I wait for the vending machine to cough up my poor excuse of a celebratory cake. When it begins to stutter, stopping its levers midway and fully trapping my treat in its clutches, I throw my arms in the air in frustration.
“You have got to be shitting me?!” I groan.
I slap the glass repeatedly, and it still doesn’t budge. I begin to kick at the damn thing while furiously white-knuckling my phone in my hand, only for the cupcake to mock me further as it remains in the machine’s grasp. Defeated, I slam my forehead on the glass, and by some miracle, the grips decide to release the package, dropping it into the bottom drawer. I bend down as much as my gray pencil skirt will allow and pick up my cupcake. I should feel a sense of triumph that I finally have my snack in my hands, but celebrating such a small victory feels goddamn sad.
Not one for dwelling in self-loathing or things I have no control over for too long, I turn around and head back toward the library’s entrance, where a long night of work still awaits. I’m halfway to its doors when my mobile phone begins vibrating in my hand, my editor’s name popping up on its screen.
“Hey, Jenna. Just give me a second,” I say before letting her have a word in, so I can step outside where I can talk freely. “Okay, I’m here.”
“Emma!” she greets gleefully, making me let out a sigh of relief.
I can tell how a call with my editor, Jenna Miller, is going to go all by the way she says my name. Today isn’t going to be one of those calls where she pesters me for new material or reminds me of deadlines. She sounds too chipper, which means she’s read the last email I sent her and is pleased with my findings.
“So I take it you like the recent chapters I sent you.”
“I not only liked but FLOVED it!”
I wipe one sweaty palm on my thigh, realizing just how much I was dreading her call.
“It’s still rough, but so far, I am loving what you’ve been able to dig up,” she adds, instantly creating a slump to my shoulders where there was only relief a second ago.
Rough.
In other words, there is still so much she wants me to either change, elaborate, or erase completely. ‘Rough’ is Jenna-talk for you’re on the right track, but what else can you give me.
Sigh.
Considering I’ve been stressing with how she was going to react to my latest chapters, I’m going to take this as a win. I can handle rough. It’s when she uses words like unacceptable or not up to Ivory Publishing House standards that I get worried. Jenna has gone up to bat for me more times than I can count with the publishing house. Even going as far as granting me more time to deliver on a book idea I had pitched to her bosses almost four years ago to the day, so I hate it when I feel that I’ve let her down.
Four years. Has it really been that long?
It feels like it was just yesterday when I decided to finish what he started.
“I think everything is finally coming together nicely. I wouldn’t be surprised if this time next year your name is on the New York Times bestseller list,” she continues on cheerfully.
“I like your optimism,” I mumble, less certain.
“Emma, both you and I know I’m not an optimist. I’m a New Yorker. There isn’t room for wishful thinking in this town. If I tell you that you are definitely on the right track with this book, then it’s not me stroking your ego—it’s my honest opinion.”
“Isn’t stroking a writer’s ego part of every editor’s job description?”
“No. That’s their agent’s. Not mine.” She laughs. “My job is to make sure everyone reads the work you have been slaving over for the past four years. And believe me, they will. I might even be able to wrangle a movie deal out of it. I know plenty of studios out west that are hungry for material like this.”
“It’s not a romance book, Jenna.”
“No, but it would make one hell of a documentary. You’ll be singing a different tune when this book gets you some Netflix money,” she singsongs.
“This has never been about the money for me. You know that,” I retort somberly, not one bit excited about the notoriety she’s promising.
“Yes, I do,” she replies with less glee in her voice. “He’d be very proud of you, Emma. You know that, right?”
I chew my lower lip and look up at the cloudy North Carolina sky that successfully hides the full moon above.
“Anyhooooo,” Jenna continues, sensing my need for a subject change. “That’s not why I’m calling you tonight. Don’t think I forgot what day it is.”
I look down at the snack in my hand and sigh.
“Thanks,” I reply before she has time to make a big deal out of my birthday.
“So, what are you going to do? Nice dinner with your friends? Hit a few bars and go clubbing? I would just die if my birthday were on Halloween. I’d make all my parties Halloween themed.”
“Hmm,” I mumble noncommittally to her idea of how my twenty-ninth birthday should be celebrated.
No use in telling my editor that since I moved to North Carolina, she’s the closest friend I have. Putting that into words is even more pathetic than the cupcake I’m holding onto.
“Emma…”
“Yes?”
“Where are you right now?”
I could lie. I could. But why bother?
“The library.”
“Jesus Christ, Emma! It’s your birthday, woman—the last one you’ll have before turning thirty. Go out and have some fun. Work will be there in the morning.”
Work is always there in the morning. It’s been my constant companion for longer than I care to admit. Even if I wanted to ditch work and just enjoy myself for one night like Jenna is so keen on me doing, where the hell would I go anyway?
“Even your grandfather would have understood you taking the night off on your birthday.”
“Cheap shot, Jenna,” I reprimand with little ire behind it. “And trust me, my grandfather would not have understood. He was as much a workaholic as I am.”
I mean, where does she think I got it from?
“You know what they say—all work and no play makes for a fucking dull Emma. I mean, when was the last time you just blew off some steam? Or better yet, when was the last time you had a good orgasm?”
“Just this morning,” I reply assertively, hoping it’s enough to quiet her concern, but from the exaggerated exhale she lets out, it’s obvious it didn’t work.
“If you got the big O from something that runs on batteries, it doesn’t count. Seriously, Emma. You need to have some downtime, too. I know this work is important to you, and as your editor, I praise your work ethic, but as your friend, I think
you really need to get out there more. Have some fun. Meet a cute stranger in a bar and just bang his brains out. You’d be surprised at what a good release can do to your stamina. And I bet you that, right now, you’re running on fumes.”
“Is this why you called? You’re worried about my sex life?”
“No, of course not. I just care about you and want to see you happy.”
“I’ll be happy once I meet my deadline.”
“That too.” She laughs. “I will say this—the last chapters you sent had me reeling. Any new information you can get on The Society? I mean, you moved to Asheville because you assured us that was where they originated from, but so far, you haven’t been able to have one source on record to back up your findings.”
“It’s not for lack of trying. I can promise you that.” I huff out in exasperation. “They’re ghosts in that town.”
“Hmm. Could it be possible they don’t exist then? That this secret society is nothing but an urban legend?” she asks with dismal concern.
I can hear in her tone how that Netflix money she was going on about a minute ago is slowly flying away from her grasp in her mind, and she’s not one bit happy about it.
“Oh, they exist, Jenna,” I deadpan assuredly. “I know they do. My grandfather spent most of his life trying to prove it. Now it’s up to me to pick up where he left off, and I won’t quit until I confirm their existence.”
“Easy tiger.” She giggles, but I don’t miss the sigh of relief that came out beforehand. “If there is anyone that can prove The Society exists, it’s you. I have no doubts about that. Still, it would be nice to have a living source to back up your findings. What about the town’s founding family that you mentioned in your notes, the Richfields? Have you been able to talk to any of them on the record?”
“Unfortunately, no. Colleen Richfield won’t take any of my calls. Believe me. I’ve tried.”
“You could just request a meeting with the Richfield Foundation. I’m sure she wouldn’t refuse meeting you under the disguise of writing a puff piece on her family’s philanthropic foundation.”
“I tried that already. I only got an interview with their public relations representative. It was a total bust and a waste of time.” I huff, kicking the air at my feet in frustration.
“Hmm. What about one of her children? Didn’t you tell me her son was in one of your classes?”
“Colt Turner. Yes, he is, but I doubt he has any ties with The Society. He’s too standoffish and egocentric to be involved in such an establishment.”
Plus, that boy only has his own interests in the brain.
And when I say ‘interests,’ I mean bedding every woman within a fifty-mile radius. His insatiability has even made for juicy gossip in the teacher lounge. I doubt very much a self-involved man like Colt is the mastermind behind such a secretive club as The Society.
“I bet he is,” Jenna coos as if in sync with my thoughts. “Being the king of the world will do that to a man. Trust me. I’ve met a few who think they’re gods but lack Colt’s bank account to back up their claim.”
Or deviously handsome looks, but that tidbit I keep to myself.
“What about his cousin?” Jenna continues. “Didn’t you say he was the golden boy of the town or something? Wait, just give me a second,” she mutters to herself while shuffling some papers around. “Ah, here it is. Lincoln Richfield Hamilton. Have you tried to talk to him about his possible involvement? He seems the type of guy The Society would recruit.”
She’s right. He does.
Unlike his cousin, Lincoln Hamilton would be a prime candidate for The Society.
He ticks all the boxes.
“I do have him on my list of possible sources. Unfortunately, he’s not in any of my classes, so I haven’t had an opportunity to meet him face to face yet. And no one in Asheville invites me to any of the Northside soirees that he attends for me to get close to him. I could just bite the bullet and knock on his door and ask Lincoln for an interview, but it would be awkward considering the year he’s been having.”
“Ah, right. The burglary where his parents got killed. Yes, I would assume you’d have to wear kid gloves with him. But don’t worry, Emma. You’ll think of something. You always do.” Jenna tries to placate, hearing the frustration in my voice. “There is nothing you can do about it tonight, though. My advice to you is to get out of that stuffy library and go have some fun. Go to a bar, grab a drink and find the cutest guy there to take back to your place.”
“Sure.” I lie, throwing my gaze up at the heavens at her suggestion.
“Good. Next time I call, I hope you’ve gotten a really good fuck with a smoking hot southern stranger,” she goads like the crude New Yorker that she is. “And I won’t stop pestering you until you do either.”
It’s no use reminding Jenna that Charlotte doesn’t have the perks she’s accustomed to living in the big city. There is no way I can pick up a total stranger for a one night stand under the assurance I’ll never have to see him again. This town is too small for that. Sooner or later, our paths will cross, no matter how hard I try to avoid it. And I, for one, don’t need that type of hassle in my life. It’s chaotic enough as it is.
We say our goodbyes before I hang up the phone and walk back inside to my desk filled to the brim with unfinished work. I came to North Carolina looking for answers, and that’s exactly what I need to focus on. This work is too important for me to be sidetracked by a social life—or lack thereof.
Like my grandfather used to say, you either go with the flow or break from the mold. And no one who achieved greatness did it by going clubbing every night. He spent most of his life in pursuit of The Society, and even in his final days, he obsessed compulsively on trying to solve their puzzle before the cancer took him. After all he did for me, the least I can do is to finish his life’s work.
I look at the cupcake on top of the desk, tapping the end of my pencil on a notebook.
Twenty-nine.
Where did the time go?
Most women my age are either getting married or are busy making babies, while I’m still trying to swim up creek against the ruthless current, trying to make my mark on the world. Grandfather made sure to instill that type of independence in me from an early age. He was adamant that friendships and lovers are as inconstant as the wind but that your accomplishments are tangible proof of one’s perseverance. I’ve worked myself to the bone to get to where I am today, though most would consider that I haven’t even reached my peak.
I will admit to feeling drained. Jenna is right on that account.
All work and no play does lead to a dull life.
But the thing she doesn’t understand is the drive behind every decision I make. My grandfather, if he were still here with me, would understand my sacrifices. He knew that to obtain greatness, you had to forfeit some happiness.
Does it get lonely?
Yes. Yes, it does.
I wouldn’t mind sharing my life with someone who understood the person that I am. But for that to happen, I’d have to open myself up to the possibility of meeting someone, and I’m too busy to even bother letting anyone new come into my life. This is the last year of my contract teaching at Richfield, and I’m not sure if the school will keep me on after this year. So as I see it, the clock is ticking. I don’t want to return home empty-handed. I can’t. I just need to uncover the mystery of The Society, and then I can go back and start living my life.
Or at least I hope I can.
I stare at the mocking cupcake and sigh.
Maybe I should do what Jenna suggested and just go to a bar or a club to pick someone up just to clear the cobwebs. I can’t use Tinder, though. I tried the app when I first arrived, and I got some messages from my students thinking they could live out their fantasies of screwing one of their professors. Not something I want to be known for around campus. I worked too hard to have my reputation tarnished that way, and no lonely night in need of a warm body beside me will be enough of a
motivator to ruin all that I have built.
Everyone has the life they chose, I guess. Whether willingly and knowingly, or just based on the poor decisions we make. I’ve made peace with mine. Living a life alone is better than having the company of someone undeserving of it—another gold nugget of wisdom given to me by my grandfather. But aside from me, he lived most of his life in solitude too, so I’m not sure if he is really the one I should be taking lessons from. But back then, we had each other, and that was enough.
I miss him terribly. Especially today.
Now all I have are memories and a gravestone to get advice from.
“Happy birthday, Emma,” I mumble, splitting the cupcake in two, not even bothered that there isn’t a candle to blow out.
I’m about to take a bite when a bunch of incoming text messages on my phone grab my attention.
Jenna: Get out of that library, Emma!
Jenna: One night of fun won’t be the end of the world
Jenna: Your cha-cha will thank you for it
Jenna: Listen to your cha-cha!
My nose twitches as I stare at the bold letters on my screen, as well as the various eggplant emojis she sent afterward.
Maybe Jenna is right.
Maybe one night out will do me some good. It’s Halloween, so I’m sure there will be plenty of guys from out of town. And if there aren’t, then dancing for a few hours will definitely put a smile on my face. Work will always be here in the morning.
What harm could one night off do?
Only one way to find out.
Chapter 3
Colt
Halloween night – one month ago
“Hit me,” I order, pushing my glass to the center of the bar for a refill.
The starry-eyed bartender sashays her hips toward me, smiling wickedly with the whiskey bottle in hand. She bends her body over the counter just low enough to give me a clear view of her cleavage as she pours my drink.
Double D’s.
Not bad. Not bad at all.