Evette steps into the dark room, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath her shoes. The air feels heavier here, still and untouched, like the space has been forgotten. She lets her fingers trail along the wall, searching blindly until they brush against a plastic switch. With a soft click, the fluorescent lights overhead sputter to life, flickering once… twice… then settling into a dim, steady glow.
The room reveals itself in shades of gray. The walls are plain, worn slightly at the corners. In the center sits a small wooden desk, the kind that's too old to be stylish but too solid to be thrown away. Along one side of the room is a narrow shoulder-length shelf, its surface dusty and lined with a few scattered folders, a forgotten paperweight, and a slightly tilted photo frame that faces the wall.
Evette doesn't know what she expected, but something about this space makes her pulse shift—like she's just walked into a secret someone meant to stay hidden.
Evette's eyes drift to the wooden shelf. It's mostly bare, coated in a thin film of dust, like no one's touched it in years. A few faded files lie scattered unevenly across the surface, their paper edges curled with time. Most are unmarked or labeled with smudged ink that's too faded to read.
But one file stands out.
It rests at the very edge, not tucked away like the others, as if someone had pulled it out and never bothered to put it back. The tab is neater, newer—black ink still bold and easy to read.
Emerson H.
Evette freezes.
Her mind races, heart tapping a little faster in her chest. The name shouldn't mean anything. It's just a file. Just a name. But still… she stares at it like it's watching her back.
Evette takes a breath and slides the file from the shelf, careful not to let the dust trail down her sleeve. It's heavier than she expects. Thicker. Stuffed with papers yellowed at the edges, a couple of old CDs in paper sleeves, and a few envelopes sealed and unsealed.
She lowers herself to the small desk and begins to carefully sift through the contents, her fingertips grazing over the brittle pages.
One document catches her eye immediately. It's official-looking, printed on college letterhead. Her gaze locks onto the bold title:
Letter of Expulsion.
She reads quickly, eyes darting across the page. The name—Emerson Holloway. The date—years ago. But the part that hits her hardest is the empty space where a reason should be. There's no explanation. No offense listed. Just a cold, curt sentence: Effective immediately, Emerson Holloway is hereby expelled from West Gate College.
Her brows furrow.
She flips to the next item—this one's different. The handwriting is messy but elegant, rushed yet emotional. Ink faded just slightly with time.
It's a letter.
My dear Margaret,My love, remember the darkest hour is before dawn.Things will get better. I promise.– E.H.
Evette reads the words once, then again.
The name tugs at something in her brain.
Margaret.
Margaret...
Where had she just seen that?
Her mind flips back through the pages of the yearbook like a mental slideshow—and then it hits her. A quote. A face. A name.
When life gives you lemons, give them to Emerson.
Margaret Langhley.
Evette remembers seeing it just a few nights before.
The letter… the quote… Emerson.
They were real people. Connected.
Close, even.
She looks back at the letter, the emotion etched into every sentence. My love. This wasn't just some passing crush—Margaret meant something to Emerson. And now, years later, Evette is holding the evidence in her hands.
She sits back, the pieces in her head beginning to shift into place.
Margaret Langhley and Emerson Holloway weren't just classmates.
They were something more.
And Evette's starting to realize, this assignment might uncover way more than she signed up for.
As Evette flips through the papers, something small flutters out from between them. She blinks, distracted, and quickly reaches down to pick it up. It's a sticky note, yellowed with age but still legible. The handwriting is sharp and hurried, as if written in a rush:
Call Elliot: 555-493-2018.
Evette pauses, her eyes scanning the note. The name Elliot echoes in her mind, but it's not familiar—at least, not in any clear way. She stares at the phone number for a moment, the weight of the note heavy in her hand.
Without hesitating, she pulls out her phone. Her thumb hovers over the screen as she punches in the number. The phone rings once. Twice. Then…
BEEP.
A girl's voice picks up, sharp and uninviting.
"What?"
Evette feels a jolt in her chest, her breath catching. She tries to steady herself before speaking.
"I… I need to talk to Mr. Holloway."
But before she can say anything else, the line goes dead. Click. The call is disconnected.
Evette stares at her phone, confused and a little shaken. Her heart pounds in her chest as the silence in the room grows louder. Who was that girl? And why did the call end so abruptly?
The answers she's looking for are slipping just out of reach, but something tells her she's closer to uncovering the truth than she's ever been before.
Evette shoves Emerson's file and another one she hasn't bothered to look at into her bag, trying to keep her movements quick and calm. Her hands shake slightly as she stuffs everything into her purse, glancing around the dimly lit room, making sure no one's watching. The file's weight feels heavier than it should as she zips her bag closed, her mind racing with what she's just uncovered.
She heads out of the student records room, walking briskly but trying to act natural. Just as she's about to leave, she turns the corner and runs straight into Miss Kelly, who's standing right outside the door.
"Oh, you're back. You took quite a while," Miss Kelly says, raising an eyebrow.
Evette smiles, trying to play it off as if everything is fine. "Yeah, just looking over some records," she replies, hoping her voice doesn't betray the adrenaline coursing through her.
Miss Kelly gives a little chuckle, brushing it off. But something suddenly clicks in Evette's brain—the phone logs. The library phone. Miss Kelly had casually mentioned it earlier. If Miss Kelly knew the phone logs calls, that could give Evette a way to track the number she just called.
Evette hesitates for only a second before asking, "Uh, by any chance, can I make a call?"
Miss Kelly looks at her for a moment, then gives a friendly nod. "Sure, honey. Follow me."
Evette follows Miss Kelly to the desk where the phone sits. Miss Kelly gestures to it with a smile. "I'll be back in one minute," she says, then steps away, leaving Evette alone by the phone.
Evette doesn't waste time. She pulls her phone out of her purse and dials the same number again—555-493-2018. The phone rings, once, twice, and then…
BEEP.
A girl's voice picks up, sounding uninterested and flat. "What?"
Evette's heart races, but she forces herself to sound calm. "I need to talk to Mr. Elliot Holloway."
Before she can get another word out, the line clicks, cutting off the call abruptly once again.
Evette stares at her phone for a moment, her mind spinning. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees something, the computer screen flickers. The monitor on the desk blinks to life with a dull hum, as if it's trying to tell her something.
Curiosity piques in Evette's chest. She glances around to make sure Miss Kelly is still gone. Slowly, she moves toward the computer, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She pulls the mouse, clicks, and opens a file labeled "Call Log."
Her eyes widen as she realizes what she's looking at—an automatic call log. Every incoming and outgoing call is recorded. She scrolls through the list, trying to keep her breath steady. There it is—her call.
The name listed next to it isn't Elliot's. It's Marlowe Holloway, and the location next to it reads Philadelphia.
Evette stands frozen for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. This mystery is much deeper than she thought.