I push the door open slowly, wincing at the slight creak it makes. I slip inside, closing and locking the door behind me. There’s no way I’m leaving anything to chance. I can’t let my shadow come back in without precautions. I need to be extra careful now.
Bishop’s room is surprisingly neat, with everything in its place. The bed is made, books are stacked neatly on the desk, and there’s not a stray piece of clothing in sight. It’s almost eerie, a stark contrast to the chaos I feel inside.
I begin my search, careful not to disturb anything. My eyes scour every surface—the desk drawers, the bookshelf, even under the bed—but there’s no sign of my missing notebook. However, atop the desk, underneath a row of framed black-and-white landscape photos sits a white box adorned with a delicate bow. With cautious curiosity, I open it, only to find a seductive lingerie set nestled within. A deep sigh layered in disappointment escapes my lips as I quickly close the box back up and place it back where I found it. My frustration only intensifies with each passing minute, as I continue my fruitless search for my beloved notebook. Where could he have possibly hidden it? My mind races with possibilities, but none seem to lead me any closer to finding it.
I continue my search, checking under the mattress, briefly shuffling clothes in the closet, even behind the curtains. Time is ticking away, and I know I can’t stay here much longer without risking discovery.
As I’m about to give up, a glint catches my eye from the corner of his closet. I freeze for a moment, my gaze drawn to a brownleather bag tucked away, almost hidden beside a neat pile of clothes. My heart leaps. Could it be in there?
I kneel down, the air thick with anticipation, and carefully reach for the bag. Running my fingers over the buttery, dark leather, I can feel the worn texture—it looks like it’s been well-used, the kind of bag that’s seen its fair share of travel. My fingers trace the edges, looking for a way to open it without leaving any sign of my intrusion.
I pause, my hand hovering over the bag’s clasp. Somehow, this feels worse than breaking into his room. More intimate. More deliberate. His open room could’ve been a coincidence—someone left a door unlocked, someone got curious. But going through his bag? That’s a choice. A direct line into what he carries with him. What he protects.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
But then I push aside the doubt—because when has Bishop ever respectedmyboundaries? The answer: never.
This? This is just me evening the score—or at the bare minimum, tilting the scales my way a little after everything he did to me.
Unfastening the latch, I open the bag and peer inside. To my amazement, I find a camera nestled among various lenses and accessories.
A camera? I hadn’t pegged Bishop as the photography type. But curiosity takes over, pulling me in despite my better judgment. I carefully lift the camera from the bag—it’s a vintage model, old-fashioned but meticulously cared for. The kind of camera you see in old photographs or in the hands of someone who appreciates the weight of history.
I turn it over in my hands, running my fingers over the weathered leather and brass edges. The camera feels like something out of another time, out of place in this era of digital everything. I snort under my breath.Of course it’s an oldcamera. Nothing here is ever simple or modern.It fits perfectly in a place like Altair—where they don’t even allow cellphones, let alone anything that might actually make life easier.
As I examine the camera, I notice a stack of photographs tucked into the side of the bag. I pull them out gingerly, holding my breath, afraid to disturb something.
The first image is of the boathouse, taken at night, the moon casting its pale light across the water, ripples distorting the reflection. The trees surrounding it reach toward the sky like dark fingers, their shadows stretching across the still surface of the shoreline. There’s a haunting quality to the photo—something quiet, almost mournful, in its beauty.
The second photograph is of an old wrought iron gate, rusted and twisted, half-covered in ivy. A mist hovers over the ground, blurring the details in a way that makes it seem like the scene is caught between two worlds—both real and dreamlike.
I flip through a few more images, each one of a scene from around campus—landscapes, architectural details, and empty hallways—nothing that seems to explain why Bishop would take such an interest in them. It’s all eerie and beautiful, but it doesn’t make sense. Why would he spend so much time capturing these things? What was he trying to preserve?
Just as I’m about to go to the next photo, a sharp sound from the hallway breaks my concentration. Footsteps. I freeze, the camera still in my hands, listening intently. The footsteps grow louder, steadily approaching Bishop’s door.
Panic surges through me. I don’t even think about it—I just grab the stack of photographs and shove them into my pocket.I scramble to get the camera back in the bag, my movements frantic. My hands shake as I try to position it exactly as I found it, fumbling with the clasp, silently cursing the tremors running through me.
The footsteps are right outside the door now. I dart across the room, searching desperately for a hiding spot.
The closet I was just in is too obvious. Under the bed? No, it’s too low for me to fit. My eyes land on the heavy, floor-length curtains by the window. It’s not ideal, but it’s my only option.
I dive behind the thick fabric just as the faintclickof a key turning in the lock hits my ears. I hold my breath, trying to make myself as small and still as possible. The curtain barely settles into place when I hear the door open.
I can hear movement around the room, footsteps that are slow and deliberate. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure everyone must hear it. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to become invisible. The footsteps pause, and I hear the faint sound of something being set down.
Then, a soft rustling—a mirror being adjusted. And then, the unmistakable click of a lipstick cap coming off.
I peek through the curtain, just enough to see a reflection in the mirror. Ophelia. She’s standing there, lips parted as she carefully applies bright red lipstick. It’s bold, the color vibrant against her skin. She puckers her lips, inspecting herself in the mirror with a self-assured grin.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I could’ve seen the back of my skull. Seriously? She winks at her reflection, and for a second, I think I’m about to throw up.
With a final swipe, she caps the lipstick and tucks it into her bag.
Then she pulls out an envelope, its edges sharp and crisp. A coy smile dances on her lips as she presses a kiss to the front, her red lipstick leaving a perfect print. She holds it up, admires the kiss, then walks across the room to the white box I’d seen earlier on Bishop’s desk. With a playful grin, she slides the envelope beneath the satin ribbon.
Her satisfaction lingers as she takes a few steps back, a spritz of her perfume filling the air. It’s thick, sweet, and a little overwhelming as she makes sure the scent clings to the box, like a signature move she’s done a thousand times before.
But then she pauses. Her nose wrinkles—barely—but it’s enough. She gives a soft, almost offended sniff of the air. Another puff of perfume follows, this one quicker, sharper, like she’s trying to drown something out.