Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,96

My chest ached with regret—with the missed opportunity to spot the danger lurking in the corners. “I thought he was still in prison.”

“Good news is he’s probably going back,” Abe said mildly. “You couldn’t have anticipated it, Sam.”

I nodded, throat still tight. Freya grabbed Abe and pulled him onto the short stage. “Now here’s the best part about not dying. We got the damn letters back.”

Abe stared down at the glass case. Shook his head in slow disbelief.

“I’ll bring you tacos for a year,” he promised. His phone was to his ear not a second later.

“Scarlett?” he said, starting to walk away. “I’m staring at the George Sand letters. My agents recovered them from an underground auction. I think it’s highly likely those other letters you’re holding are forgeries.”

“We’ll probably lose the contract,” Freya said next to me. “We got the letters back, but the press will be all over it. No top-secret return to Hollywood.”

“I’m not sure we had a choice,” I said, placing my palm on the glass case. They were tiny, insubstantial pieces of paper with words scrawled in uneven lines. So small for a rescue that was so big.

She leaned down, her breath fogging the glass. Her eyes shone with wonder, as they often did. “Do you know what happened to these two in the end?”

“I don’t.”

“Alfred grew ill with a mysterious sickness which he eventually recovered from,” she explained. “And George left him for his doctor.”

“Ice-cold,” I said.

“Right?” she said, smiling. “But for this moment in time, as they wrote these words—hidden messages and all—the only thing that mattered was their passionate love. It’s why they’re beautiful. We hunt down a lot of epic historical tomes or great works of literature at Codex. These are mere records of our humanity, which makes them even more special.”

“Do you think they loved each other, even if they argued constantly?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I think, deep down, they only argued because they were afraid of how powerful their love was.”

“Freya, listen,” I started to say, voice ragged. Two police officers and a paramedic were moving quickly toward the stage.

“We did it,” I said softly, redirecting. “You and me.”

She cracked a cheeky smile. “I’m fucking happy, Sam.”

I laughed. “Fuck, I mean…me too.”

“How do you feel?”

I felt night and day from the way I’d felt during my “incident” at the Bureau. This feeling of joyful elation didn’t even bear comparison.

“I feel accomplished,” I admitted. “I feel like we did something good for the world.”

“That’s how I feel too,” she agreed. “George the writer and Alfred the poet would be proud. Your mother loved poetry, didn’t she?”

The unexpected mention of my mother brought instant happiness. I thought about her every day. But the week after she passed away, my father made it clear she was not to be spoken about in our house. My young, healthy, ever-vital mother had died from a brain aneurysm in her sleep when I was twelve—a swift, unexpected death that carved my father in half. He kept his external grief for her short. Secretive. For a long time, I’d try sharing memories of her on her birthday or during certain holidays. His responses were glacial and curt.

In many ways, I was starved to share her memory with anyone who would listen.

“She did love poetry,” I finally said. “She read it every single night. Sometimes she’d read poems to me before I fell asleep. But if I woke up, searching for her, she’d be sitting in the kitchen. Tea and a blanket. Just reading. She always said poetry influenced her dreams, made them more beautiful.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “You remembered that?”

“You told me all about her once,” Freya said. “During one of our late-night study sessions when we were loopy from lack of sleep. I always think about her when I’m in the poetry section of bookstores.”

“You think of my mother?”

“Of course,” she said.

A swell of emotion threatened to knock me down.

“I always think of you when I go to bookstores,” I said. “I would go to that old bookstore you loved near the academy. If I was missing you.”

She brushed the hair from her face. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“That love letter you told Cora about…was it for me?”

The police officers and the paramedic descended upon us—Abe alongside them. I knew it was going to be a long night—we’d be questioned and give our statements, and I wasn’t going to be able to ignore the incoming call from my father. Besides, Freya and