Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,53

beneath The Grand Dame and several notable historic buildings in Philadelphia.” Ward knocked on the stone with a look of pride. “Only the true criminals are lucky enough to walk them.”

Sam squeezed my hand one more time. “Must make us true criminals, then.”

23

Sam

I wanted to arrest the hell out of every person in this fucking tunnel.

Their brazenness alone had me grinding my teeth to stay in character. The real intention behind Dr. Ward’s speech was becoming clear. It wasn’t calling out those who had the audacity to tarnish this community’s reputation with their illegal actions. The real message had been tucked inside his bombastic words—the coyotes are at our door.

The man despised liars and cheats, was concerned about recent arrests and his own stolen property. His actual fury had been directed at the threats he perceived toward The Empty House. Those deceptive coyotes were a code for law enforcement or anyone else getting in their way.

Which made being trapped in this tunnel with him a lot more dangerous.

Freya shivered. I shook off my jacket, draped it over her shoulders, then rejoined our hands.

I also wanted to punch Ward right in his face for forcing her to be inside a place I knew she was afraid of.

“The history of these tunnels is as notorious as the bootleggers who built them,” Ward said, voice echoing in the dark.

Freya cupped her fingers around the flame of her candle, drawing the light source closer.

“The woman who ran the perfumery in The Grand Dame basement was named Viola Stark, a fine woman in the history of our darker traditions. She paid off the police to keep them blind to the speakeasy. She paid off the bootleggers using the money she made from selling liquor to high-society women in their perfume bottles. And she became rich herself off one of the most popular speakeasies in this region. Men and women used to travel from miles around to slip into that basement and indulge in something forbidden but no less virtuous.”

An insidious fury pumped through my veins. First a trickle, and then a roar that dominated my attention. Gregory. A man I’d trusted with my life—literally—had been a thieving piece of shit for our entire partnership. His crimes had started long before we were partners in Art Theft—he was twenty years older—but I still felt completely responsible for missing the abundance of warning signs. Warning signs, my father had accused, I wouldn’t have missed if I wasn’t preoccupied with my own issues.

My gaze slid to Freya, head high and bravely putting one step in front of the other. The candlelight exposed the variations of blond in her hair—light and dark blending together. Here I was, responsible for a high-profile case and preoccupied with my most distracting distraction. Almost kissing her with a suspect just down the hall. Holding her hand as a source of comfort—and getting an illicit thrill from the romantic gesture.

“It’s not hard to take advantage of the authorities, my friends,” Ward was saying. The ground beneath us was slick and smelled of mildew. “Viola did it. They’re not immune to money.”

I flashed to my father the day of my incident. The rage in his eyes, the disappointment. And you had no idea he was tipping off suspects for a monetary reward this whole time? Gregory was not immune to money, that was certainly true. Which had only made me feel sicker that day—not only that my anxiety had blinded me to his betrayal, but that he had gone against the core values of the Bureau. Like these book thieves, he had bent the laws to suit his selfish needs.

“When the shipments came in from the river, a gin-loving academic would let them into Philosopher’s Hall. They would descend into these tunnels, carrying crates of liquor. Viola’s guards manned the entrance from these tunnels to the basement of The Grand Dame.”

“And the staircase we just used?” I asked.

“For parties,” Ward said. “A way to sneak contraband from the tunnels to the penthouse without being seen. Or judged.”

Freya was openly shivering now, even with my jacket on. And I didn’t blame her—the tunnels were hushed and pitch black, with the exception of the tiny flames. Everyone ahead was somber and serious, like a band of monks walking the halls of a monastery.

I could feel the guard behind us—a powerful warning amid a sea of unending shade.

I wrapped my arm around Freya’s shaking shoulders, holding her as tightly as I could. We came to a stop at