Under the Rose

by Kathryn Nolan

  The waitstaff were rapidly cleaning up. Time was up in Philosopher’s Hall. It was already almost 11:00 p.m.

  “We’ll give these folks another few minutes, and then we’ll all be exiting together.”

  The guard opened the secret door, back into the tunnel, and I remembered what Freya had told me. I can’t go down there again.

  “Give me a second,” I whispered in her ear.

  I walked confidently to Ward, body language open, palms out and open. “I’m sure you’re curious to know how things will shake out tomorrow.”

  “It’s always interesting to pit people against one another,” he replied. “You should know that very well, Mr. King.”

  I slid my hands into my pockets. “I do. And Birdie and I intend to win.”

  “Good man,” he said. “With a father like yours, how could you not go for victory?”

  Only losers quit, Samuel. Have you ever seen me quit?

  “Very true,” I managed. I looked behind me at Freya, studying the bookshelves with a familiar gleam in her eye. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  Ward nodded, turned closer to me.

  “Birdie didn’t want to share this earlier, because she’s nervous about this being our first time and all. But she’s deathly afraid of cramped spaces. Her claustrophobia is, well, it’s quite serious. She almost fainted on the walk over here in those tunnels.”

  “I see.”

  “Is there any harm with the two of us exiting out the front?”

  “Of course there’s harm,” he said. “With the exception of our secret contact, no one knows we’re here. No one is supposed to be here. You can’t be seen coming out of this house.”

  I looked at Freya, remembered how badly she’d trembled down there in the dark. Knew that it would terrify her again. Also knew that she’d do it—because she was brave.

  “How is the waitstaff exiting?”

  “The tunnels as well.”

  I swallowed a growl of frustration. Glanced around the room. “Is there a side window?”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Is it crazier than using secret underground tunnels?”

  Ward’s smile grew across his face. “I sure do like your style, Mr. King.”

  “I know it’s a risk,” I said, dropping my voice. “And I think you’re aware of the many rare items Birdie and I can get our hands on. Items that don’t need to be offered to the public when they can be offered to one man.”

  His gaze sharpened, sensing opportunity. “How much?”

  “Please. It would be our treat.”

  He let me sit for a few seconds before responding. “Leave now. There’s a first-story window on the east side of the building, behind two very large oak trees. You should be fairly hidden.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Freya had wandered down the hallway. Neck craned, she was staring at the paintings, tracing her fingers along the displayed rare manuscripts. A small table at the front door to the hall had business cards, brochures, information about the building’s historic nature.

  “Follow me,” I whispered, taking her arm. “Ward said we can leave through a side window. But it’s on the first floor, so not a big jump.”

  “This is the weirdest fucking night of my life,” she whispered. “And we haven’t even gotten to the masks.”

  “I think we’ve agreed with each other more tonight than all of our years at Princeton and Quantico combined.” I glanced behind me, saw no one. Sounds filtered in from that back room—people moving around, chairs scraping floors, plates being cleared.

  We approached the only window facing east. It was an 18th-century building, which meant windows were limited. There was one, and it wasn’t modernized. It slid up, no screen, and locked from the inside. I pushed it open, letting in the humid night air.

  “I can go first and catch you,” I offered.

  “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I’ll go first and catch you.”

  With a sly grin, I slid out the window and let myself fall to the ground. My feet landed on soft, wet grass. “Not if I get there first.”

  She was peering down at me from the window. “I’m getting a Rapunzel vibe.”

  “Come on,” I said.

  “Don’t you dare catch me.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Come on.”

  She slipped one leg out, then the other, dangling for a moment before she let go. Every impulse in my body demanded that I catch her.

  So I did. My arms wrapped around her waist, stopping her mid-drop.

  “Ooof,” she said, giggling. She kicked her legs. “This feels like you catching me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, sliding her down my body—an action that immediately evoked what we’d done in the bathroom. We stood there for a second, breathing in the darkness, utterly silent. Just staring at each other.

  “I kinda liked it.”

  “Admitting you were wrong? Another first,” I said.

  The window slammed shut behind us—probably a server closing it. Freya and I broke apart, and I searched for a suitable hiding place. She pulled me toward a small back building that was probably a shed or a garage. We were on Pine Street, in Old City, with a graveyard on one side and another historic building on the other. Across the street was a long stretch of brick rowhomes, gas lanterns flickering by their front doors.

  “Thank you for getting me out of walking through that dank-smelling murder tunnel.” Freya shivered audibly.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” I said. “I was happy to do it.”

  With a nod, she whipped out her phone to show me the messages from Abe. I read them quickly in the darkness. Rubbed my forehead, tried to think. “At the earliest, we’re looking at having access to the letters tomorrow night for whatever this masked event is that we’re going to.”

  “I know, I know,” she said, worrying at her bottom lip. “But whoever this other firm is, they suck big, hairy donkey balls. Right?”

  I laughed—and she slapped a hand over my mouth, giggling. “Shhh. Don’t start getting my jokes now, Byrne. You’re going to get us caught.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a night. Of course, they suck…”

  “Donkey balls.”

  “Donkey balls. And I think their source is wrong. Has to be. Those people can’t all want letters that aren’t available to them.”

  She propped her hand on her hips. Glared daggers at Philosopher’s Hall, rising before us. “I have a wild idea.”

  “I already hate it.”

  “Remember when I told you I’d corrupt you?”

  The bathroom came to mind—I couldn’t help it. The kiss and the things I’d wanted to do with my tongue. My hands. My mouth.

  “Byrne.” Freya snapped her fingers. “Do you want to find these letters or what?”

  “I hate not winning,” I growled. “I hate failing.”

  My father will never let me live it down if I do.

  “So what do two super-competitive people do when they’re competing with another team?” She pointed at the Hall with a big smile. “They break into the building where they’re keeping the evidence.”

  29

  Freya

  “No.”

  “Hear me out.”

  “Evandale.”

  Sam and I were whisper-arguing behind an old tool shed while trying to stay hidden and away from the prying eyes of nosy Philly residents. I pulled him deeper into the shadows until I could barely make out his handsome face.

  “Listen to me,” I pleaded. “Ward said a number of times that the philosophers are their most sympathetic partners. He said this hall was not a museum, but luckily acted like one. And he also said that they did more for us than you could ever know.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “What if the items being auctioned off tomorrow night are here. In this house. Stored here. Talk about a needle in a haystack—their sympathetic contact could store rare books surrounded by their own collection of rare books. I p
assed rooms with glass cases and private storage areas. Those letters could be in there.”

  I caught the turn of his head but couldn’t read his darkened expression. “We’re running this out like a scenario,” he said.

  “Goddammit, Byrne.”

  “First,” he said, using his serious I’m an FBI agent tone, “say we break in and find nothing.”

  “The other firm could be right. Or they’re wrong, and we have to wait another twenty-four hours to maybe get to the letters at the auction.”

  “And we lose the hours we could have used to, say, search Ward’s hotel room for them,” he countered.

  “That’s not a bad instinct,” I said, “but Ward’s too smart to store recently stolen books on his person. He is smart enough to have someone else do it for him.” I nodded back at the hall behind us.

  “Fair point,” he said. “We break in there, find nothing, and get caught by the police. It’s not like private detectives are above the law.”

  “Scenario three. We break in there, find the letters, and don’t get caught by the police,” I said. “Or scenario four—we get caught by the police, surrounded by stolen goods, and help bring down The Empty House because we’re sitting on so much actual evidence.”

  “Everything we’ve overheard is circumstantial at best,” Sam said. “We can’t record them without their permission. And we have no photographic proof. They could turn around just as easily and say that we’d stolen the letters.”

  But he was looking up at Philosopher’s Hall like a mountaineer about to scale Everest. Like he respected it for the challenge even though danger lurked ahead.

  “Other option is we fail,” I said.

  He shifted, and a slice of moonlight illuminated his face. His lips were tipped into a slight smile. “You sure Abe isn’t tricking us into working together?”

  I opened my mouth to argue. “Well, shit, that’s actually a good point.”

  Sam continued to stare ahead.

  “What’s your plan, partner?” I asked.

  He let out a big sigh. “What’s Abe’s stance on breaking and entering?”

  “I’m going to guess negative.”

  “The only other option is failure,” he repeated.

  “And the worst that can happen is we go to jail.”

  Sam dragged a hand down his face. “It’s possible you’ve gotten weirder since Quantico.”

  “It’s possible you’ve gotten even more lame.”

  “Are we even telling Abe? Henry? Delilah?”

  “We can tell them if we succeed,” I said. I chewed on my lip. I hated keeping things from Del. But she and Henry had also gone against Abe’s direct orders on the first case they’d worked together. At the time, I would have told her not to do it.

  And yet it was the only way they could have succeeded.

  “Think of it as a funny story. Hey. So crazy, but guess what we did last night.”

  “We can’t let those letters slip away,” Sam finally said.

  “I’m trying to keep it light here, but”—I touched his arm—“you know I wouldn’t suggest anything this intense if I didn’t have a good hunch.”

  “Your hunches were legendary at the academy.”

  “No, they weren’t.” I waved my hand through the air.

  “Yes, they were,” he said. “As much as it pains me to admit this, if you think they might be in there, they might be.”

  “It’s a big deal. This is like the hacking thing. We do it as partners or we don’t do it,” I said.

  One last glance into the sky, as if the moon held the answers. Then he muttered, “Fuck it,” under his breath. Crouched down like a cat burglar, pulling me with him.

  “Here’s the thing,” he whispered, “I didn’t hear that waiter latch the window after he closed it. Did you?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Could be an access point.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Sam stood up. “Wait. You’re not going to argue with me?”

  “This is your area of expertise,” I replied. “I hacked us into the site. You break us into this building.”

  “FBI agents don’t go around breaking into buildings.”

  “Don’t they?” I said. “You and I had to conduct like twenty simulated rescues out of buildings like this one. I always wanted to go in from the roof, and you always told me to quote fuck off unquote.”

  “I have never, in my life, said the words fuck off to you.”

  “Okay, fine,” I admitted. “You said something like ‘your plan lacks legitimate resources and is basically implausible.’”

  We were whispering to each other urgently, low and sliding through the grass. I’d kicked off my heels, and my feet were wet from dew, hem of my dress already dirty. Our hands hit the wall, and we both peered at the window from where we’d launched ourselves. All the lights in the building were off—not a sound came from inside.

  “You’re sure he said the catering staff was leaving through the tunnels?”

  Sam nodded. Held his hand out. “I’ll boost you up. See if you can slide the window open from the outside.”

  A dog barked, and I almost fell over. Sam grabbed my arms, kept me standing, finger pressed to his lips. Some rustling—wind again—another barking dog. But we were blanketed in darkness as a stream of clouds floated across the moon.

  He cupped his hands, and I placed my foot there. One hand on his shoulder, one on the building. I desperately tried to ignore the sensation of Sam’s face this fucking close to my breasts. Every time he exhaled, I could feel his breath, caressing my collarbone.

  “Ready, partner?” I whispered.

  “Ready. And please be careful.”

  He scooped me up—it wasn’t far, just the first story. I was able to place my fingertips on the window and apply the lightest pressure. Pushed.

  It slid open.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed. With deliberate care, I pushed the window up gently, looking behind me to make sure no one was catching our first B and E. Once the window opened an inch, I listened. No staff. No movement inside.

  Slid the window all the way up and rolled inside, landing quietly. Popped my head out and waved Sam in. We were near the table I’d been glancing at earlier—staff business cards, brochures about the history of Philosopher’s Hall.

  Sam hoisted himself with all the grace of a Crossfit enthusiast. He’d shed his jacket, and I could make out the muscles of those massive shoulders shifting beneath his white shirt. He dropped to the floor. Handed me my shoes.

  “Did we do it?” he asked, standing to his full height.

  “I think so,” I said. I lightly punched him in the shoulder. “Suck it, other firm.”

  He looked around. Let out a relieved breath. “Okay. Okay we need to focus. Think. We won’t have much—”

  “Shit,” I hissed. “Shit, fuck, shit.”

  Sam whirled around—expecting an attacker, I’m sure. But all I could do was grab his arm and point to the red blinking lights flaring to life on the ceiling. Blink blink blink. Two small, white security cameras were pointed directly at our faces.

  “The security alarm,” I said. “Byrne, we tripped the—”

  But I didn’t need to say more.

  Because those red lights exploded into a wailing siren.

  30

  Freya

  The security alarm at Philosopher’s Hall was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. It was a screaming banshee of sound, and all Sam and I could do was gape at each other as those red lights blinked faster and faster.

  That dog was barking again—more dogs, a pack of fucking dogs, all reacting to the same high-pitched frequency. Quickly, Sam slid the window shut and dragged me to the ground.

  “Remember that time you said the worst thing that could happen was we’d go to jail?” Sam hissed. “Looks like your dream’s about to come true.”

  “Trying to see me in an orange jumpsuit, eh?” I shot back, army-crawling across the floor unt
il I reached a black box with white lettering. Vesper Systems. I grabbed my phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Activating my nerd girl powers,” I said. I crawled back to him, both of us sitting against the wall.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Slip out that same window and run. There’s time. Maybe the security cameras didn’t catch our faces.”

  I held up a finger. Searched for Vesper Systems customer service line. Dialed it.

  “We need to go,” he urged.

  Another sound now—farther in the distance.

  Police sirens.

  “Thank you for calling Vesper. Is this regarding a problem with your security system?” A woman’s chipper voice came over the phone. I pinched a business card between my fingers. Shannon James, Director of Operations. I’d grabbed it earlier, before we’d gone out that window the first time.

  “Hi, yes, this is Shannon James.” I injected as much authority into my voice as I could manage. “I needed to get back into Philosopher’s Hall to grab some files and tripped the alarm. It’s blaring so loudly I can’t hear myself think, let alone remember what our alarm code is.”

  I army-crawled back to that box. Felt along the edge until my fingernail caught the end of a piece of plastic. Flipped it open to reveal a keypad. I pressed the phone hard to my ear.

  “Of course, happy to help, Ms. James.” There was a familiar click of nails on a keyboard. “I see you are the primary account holder for Philosopher’s Hall. We can supply the code, but we’ll need your four-digit password to authorize.”

  Dammit.

  Of course, they did. The police sirens wailed closer, and I swore I saw flashing lights reflected on the far wall. Sam was watching me intently—he was either impressed or pissed as fuck. Or both.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, stalling. Picked up the brochure from the table. Philosopher’s Hall was constructed in 1743, the first of its kind in Philadelphia… “Our password to authorize is 1-7-4-3.”