I stayed hidden in the records room until my thighs screamed and I was certain that Dixon and whomever he was with had left the building. Then I jammed the files into my shoulder bag, clicked on my flashlight, and tried to straighten up. My legs and nerves betrayed me and my new, heavier shoulder bag threw me off. I felt myself falling, vaulting backward. I saw the boxes and the file cabinets going up as I went down, and before I could think better of it, my arms shot out, my hands grabbing for anything that would halt my fall.
I heard my flashlight crash to the ground as my fingers wrapped around the metal bars of a shelving unit and I tried to shift my weight à la Angelina Jolie in one of her kick-ass roles—the darkness and my surge of adrenaline must have covered up the fact that most of the things I do are à la Paula Deen—as in requiring butter—and are slightly less shiftable in the weight area. My failed kick-ass move just sped up my fall, and I slapped down hard on the industrial-grade carpet, pulling the entire bookshelf on top of me. Books and papers sailed off the shelves and flopped on me, around me, everywhere; I let out inelegant “oafs!” each time a hardcover nabbed me in the chest.
I was nearly covered by a mountain of books when a sheaf of papers fluttered down like graceful, gossamer winged doves, landing in a heap about my face. One of the loose pages blanketed my eyes and nose and though I couldn’t make out the words at that distance, I was able to see the writing.
I felt my eyes grow.
I recognized the writing—the curl on the tails of the Y’s, the curlicued question mark.
I knew it because it was mine.
“What the—?” I struggled to sit up, rolling my flashlight toward me and gathering up the papers. My mouth dropped open with each new sheet. All of them were mine, all of them oddly inane. A high school report card. A letter to my grandmother from sleepaway camp. A series of photocopied Post-It notes, personal bills, an e-mail I had written to Nina.
I pushed the bookshelf back up and shoved the books back into it, finding a stack of stapled papers mashed between So You Think Your Partner’s a Vampire and an embarrassingly over-read copy of Twilight. I thumbed through the papers and recognized those as well. Not mine.
My father’s.
Chapter Eleven
I shoved everything into my shoulder bag, did a quick once-over to make sure the room looked the same, and took off like a shot. The angst that I??d felt when I’d first come down the elevator was back, only this time it was squarely focused not on getting found out by Dixon, but on wondering what it was that Dixon was trying to find out about me. The pages were beyond any personnel file, and the stack that belonged to my father were photocopies from a book that Alex had stolen from the uber-evil Ophelia and I had only seen once: my father’s journal.
How the hell had they found their way to the Underworld Detection Agency?
My cell phone chirped as I waited for the elevator, the jaunty tune so oddly terrifying that I clamped my legs shut and willed myself not to pee.
“Sampson?”
“Hey, Sophie, are you okay? Nina told me about Feng and Xian.”
“I’m okay,” I said slowly. “Where were you though? I thought you were hiding out.”
Sampson paused for a beat. “I was following up on some leads. I thought it would be safe.”
“And did you find anything out?”
“I found out that Alex and the rest of the police force are certain that a werewolf is responsible for these killings.”
“So is Dixon,” I mumbled.
Sampson let out a measured sigh.
“Do they know about Nicco?”
I wasn’t sure if it was the lingering adrenaline, a book-induced head wound, or something more intuitive, but I thought I sensed a bit of defeat—or admittance—in Sampson’s voice.
“No. Sampson, we need to find Nicco. We need to find him and stop him and let everyone know that he’s responsible. Not you.”
There was a slow pause and Sampson breathed in. Then out. “I can’t do that. I can’t give him up.”
Because he doesn’t exist? The thought flew through my head before I had the chance to grab it, to savor it. No, I thought. I saw the other wolf. . . . But it had been dark, and I didn’t know where Sampson was that night, and moreover, I wasn’t completely certain of what Sampson looked like in wolf form.
“Sophie?” Sampson asked.
The conversation felt wrong. The slight, nagging accusation was bitter and bothersome. Sampson, I reminded myself, Sampson wouldn’t do this.
But the evidence was overwhelming.
“Find him,” I said before clicking off the phone.
I had made my decision the moment the heavy steel doors slid open on the cheerily lit police station vestibule.
I was chicken.
I could ask Sampson straight out. I couldn’t let him know that I suspected him, that my reservation and mistrust was growing. But I could confront him with the most damning evidence.
And I knew exactly where to find it.
I hitched up my file-filled shoulder bag and cut through the main police station, walking with purpose. I nodded to a few meandering file clerks and complimented the dispatcher on her Farrah hair while I blasted out my I-totally-belong-here vibe.