The walk back to the dormitory was a blur of adrenaline and cold air. I kept my hand pressed against the folder hidden under my blazer, the cardboard stiff against my ribs.
My lips still stung from Alistair's kiss, a physical reminder of the bridge we'd just burned. I felt powerful, untouchable. I had the man, and I had the proof.
But when I locked my door and cleared my desk, the world went cold.
I opened Box 442. I pulled out the tab labeled Vance, Margot – 1998. My breath was held tight in my chest as I flipped the cover.
Nothing.
The folder was empty. Not even a stray staple remained. There was only the faint, rectangular trace on the inside of the cardstock where a thick stack of papers had once rested for twenty-five years. Someone had anticipated this.
Someone had been through the deep archives recently, purging the evidence before I could lay a finger on it.
Diana Halloway.
She hadn't just ruined my mother, she was still guarding the crime scene. I threw the empty folder across the room, watching it flutter uselessly to the floor.
The thrill of the archives, the heat of Alistair's hands on me, it all felt like a distraction now. A trap. I realized with a sickening jolt that if Diana knew the files were a target, she likely knew who was looking for them.
Alistair stood in his kitchen, staring at a glass of water as if it held the secrets of the universe. The "heartburn" was back, sharper now, a physical manifestation of the guilt that was rotting his composure.
The silence in the house was broken by the sharp clack of Claire's heels on the tile. She had changed out of her work clothes into something silk, something that flowed around her legs with a predatory grace. She didn't look angry anymore. She looked determined.
"We can't keep doing this, Alistair," she said. Her voice wasn't a hiss tonight, it was a low, melodic purr. She walked toward him, stopping just inches away, invading the space he usually reserved for his own thoughts.
"I know," Alistair said, his voice sounding hollow even to himself. "The fighting... it's exhausting."
"It's more than that. We've become strangers in our own home." Claire reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Her touch was familiar, but it felt wrong, a ghost of an intimacy that had died long ago.
"I was harsh at the gala. I was harsh yesterday. But it's only because I don't want to lose what we have. This life, Alistair. It matters."
Alistair looked down at her. He saw the calculation in her eyes, the way she was trying to bridge the gap with the only weapon she had left. He felt a wave of profound pity for her, and for the man he used to be.
"Claire—"
"Don't talk," she whispered. She pressed herself against him, her hands sliding up his chest to the knot of his grey tie. She began to undo it, her movements slow and deliberate.
"Let's just forget the school. Forget the budgets and the drama. Just be here. With me."
She leaned in, kissing the column of his throat. Ordinarily, this would have been the moment Alistair gave in, the moment he allowed the domestic routine to swallow his discontent. But as her lips touched his skin, he didn't feel the spark of his wife.
He felt the archives. He felt the smell of dust and the desperate, punishing heat of Elara Vance.
Claire's hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, her touch growing more insistent, more demanding. She was trying to reclaim him, to brand him as hers again. She pulled his face down to hers, her kiss tasting of expensive wine and desperation.
Alistair didn't pull away, but he didn't respond. He stood there, a polished stone in her arms, his mind miles away in a dark basement. He realized with a terrifying clarity that he was no longer a husband. He was an actor, playing a role.
Claire pulled back, her eyes searching his, her expression flickering with a sudden, sharp realization of her own failure.
"You're not here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Alistair, where are you?"
"I'm right here, Claire," he lied, his voice a responsible, hollow drone.
He allowed her to lead him toward the stairs, but his heart stayed in the North Wing.
He was a man divided, and as he climbed the steps, he knew the war was far from over.