Meet me in the basement. Thursday. Midnight.
Thursday night, she stood before the basement door at five minutes to midnight. The library was a cathedral of shadows, the moonlight slicing through the high windows and turning the dust motes into tiny, floating stars. She turned the key. The lock gave with a soft, rusted click. cristine reyes
But that was before the letter.
The girl laughed—a small, dry sound like autumn leaves. “No. I’m what he was trying to protect. And what you’ve been protecting too, even if you didn’t know it.” Meet me in the basement