Page 16 of The Last De Loughrey Dynasty

“What is?” I asked, taking a step closer.

“The official cause of her death was listed as an accident, but it was overwritten—altered, even. That shouldn’t happen with official documents,” she said, mostly to herself.

I leaned in eagerly. “Could you tell what it said before they changed it?”

Amanda shook her head. “No, but it was the seventies. It could’ve been a grammatical error, probably nothing more than a word written incorrectly. Don’t dwell on it too much, dear.”

She put the file back, locked the doors, and then moved to her desk to retrieve money from a drawer. “I hope I’ve helped, even just a little.”

Amanda escorted me outside, and we exchanged polite goodbyes.

I waited two full minutes before slipping back into the police station. My heart pounded as I headed straight for the shelf she’d forgotten to lock. It didn’t take long to find Alessandra Alderidge’s file.

Tucking it under my jacket, I hurried out again, praying there weren’t any cameras. If anyone noticed the file was missing, they’d likely suspect me right away. Who was I kidding?

I ducked into an alley next to the station and checked my surroundings. No classmates, no villagers—just me.

Pulling the file from my jacket, I opened it. But before I could read a single word, the papers were snatched from my hands.

“Hey!” I shouted, spinning around.

There stood a familiar boy, holding the file like it was the lightest thing in the world in his hands, though it had felt unbearably heavy in mine.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the criminal type, De Loughrey,” Archer muttered. For the first time, there was amusement in his voice.

He held the file high above his head, well out of my reach. I leapt up, trying to grab it, but to with no luck.

“Arsehole,” I spat, my frustration boiling over. A sudden urge to push him surged through me, but I resisted. Violence wasn’t in my nature, and I wasn’t about to start now, not because ofhim.

“Lovely choice of words,” he replied coolly.

When I finally stopped trying to snatch the file, he lowered it slightly and scanned the title aloud. “Alessandra Alderidge.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type who can read,” I shot back.

He ignored the insult. “What are you doing with a stolen police file about an accident from fifty years ago? Specifically, an accident involving your roommate’s family?”

“None of your business.”

“You’re pretty mean for a girl whose nickname is ‘Doe.’”

“Interesting coming from a guy named Archer who seems to always aim without ever quite hitting the target, huh?” I crossed my arms. “Besides, I’m not rude. I just don’t feel like sharing my secrets with someone who’s been watching me like I’m a ghost from his past. Now give me the file, or I’ll start screaming.”

My patience had officially run out.

He tilted his head, unbothered. “I’m sure the police would love to know who stole their file. Shall I let them know?”

Anger flared in my chest. “You want me to explain why I just nicked this file?”

“That’s what I’m asking, yes.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “I’m mad. I’m mad, and I think I relived Alessandra Alderidge’s death in a dream. And most importantly, I think her death wasn’t an accident but suicide. I need this file to prove to myself that I’m not crazy.”

Archer stared at me for a long moment. Then, without a word, he handed me the file.

I blinked, caught off guard by his sudden change in attitude.

“Wasn’t so hard to tell the truth, was it?” he said, his voice free of judgement.

---