Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
I reach between the shelves, I feel, I find, and I pull. Then I stand back and wait for the compartment to reveal itself.
The clicking of some mechanisms, the slow creaking of wood shifting, the extended time it takes . . .
It’s like a scene from a movie, one of those pinnacle moments when everyone is holding their breath, when everyone knows something monumental is about to be revealed. I don’t realise that I’m holding mine until my lungs start screaming. ‘Oh . . . my . . . God . . .’ I wheeze, my hands coming up to my face and covering my mouth, almost as if I’m preparing to hold back the gasp of shock that I think might be coming.
Everything is functioning of its own accord, on autopilot, and I’m just going with it, not resisting, not fighting, just accepting that I am on the cusp of an immense discovery. It scares me, and, infuriatingly, it thrills me. It’s got me swallowing repeatedly and trying so very hard to steady my trembling body.
Breathing in through my nose, I step forward and reach into the darkness, taking hold of the leather book as I release my stored air calmly. I’m not feeling calm. I’m feeling all kinds of scrambled. I pull the leather-bound book from the darkest depths of the bookshelf and stare at it for a few moments. Then I open it up. I finger the edges of the map poking out at the back for a few moments, but that isn’t what I’m here to see. I turn the first page. And I see everything that I saw before, the very first time I clapped eyes on this book. I see Picasso’s Harlequin Head, I see the Fabergé egg, and I see the Stradivarius violin.
I don’t know why I’m only realising it now – maybe because it’s so unbelievably far-fetched, or maybe it’s simply because what I am currently thinking is way past my comprehension – but all of these things – the violin, the Fabergé egg, the Picasso . . .
They are all presumed lost to history.
Or stolen.
My hands start to shake, the book shaking with it, as I flick through a few more pages, until I find what I knew I would. A file. The one from Becker’s desk that was unfamiliar to me. Because it was blue, and every file at The Haven is red. The file wasn’t destroyed. It was hidden.
I open it up, breathing through my anticipation, and there, bold as the woman herself in the flesh, is Lady Winchester, smiling up at me.
And next to her, as bold as my red hair, is a photograph of the Heart of Hell.
The book starts to vibrate in my hands, and I let it fall to the floor before it can burn me. ‘Oh my God.’ The lump in my throat swells, making my words of shock sound broken and desperate.
‘Hey, princess.’
My head snaps up, finding Becker standing by the door, his jacket off, the top button of his shirt undone, and his bow tie hanging freely. His words were quiet and passive. They were wary.
I gulp down my shock and try to unravel the crazy in my head, my eyes flitting all over the library floor. ‘How did you find me in the dark at Countryscape?’ I ask, the questions steaming forward, needing to be answered. I look up at him, finding him expressionless. ‘How did you land Brent with a tidy crack to the jaw in the pitch black?’
‘I was wearing night-vision glasses,’ Becker says quietly.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ I stagger back and grab the edge of the bookshelf, my mind swimming, my eyes closing, like I can hide from my reality. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at the man I’m hopelessly in love with and try to unravel all the shit polluting my mind. I’ve dealt with a lot. I’ve questioned my morals. I’ve questioned Becker’s, too. But how much is too much? Again, where the fucking hell does it stop?
Crime, in so many forms. Deception, fraud, vandalism, aiding and abetting, conspiracy, theft, actual bodily harm . . .
I’m going to be on the Most Wanted list. I’m going to be thrown into jail for life. My mum is going to wonder where I’ve disappeared to. I could never tell her. I couldn’t divulge the shit that surrounds my life now. But I won’t have a choice, will I? Because it will be headline fucking news. Dad was right. All of this – the beauty, the history, the money – it’s all more hassle than it’s worth.
Yes, it’s all more hassle than it’s worth. But what about Becker? Is he more hassle than he’s worth? He promised no more secrets. And this is a fucking huge one. Oddly and quite crazily, that’s what hurts most.