“Bro, if either of us is Sherlock Holmes, it's me. And you're Watson,” Micah announces, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his Adamson Academy hoodie. Tobias is wearing the same hoodie, just in navy blue instead of champagne.
“Bullshit. You might win at drag racing, but my grades are better than yours by far. Plus, I'm older by eight minutes. That makes me the detective, and you the sidekick.”
“Remind me how many fights you've won versus how many I've won. I'm superior in the ring, and I'm better at sex. Even Charlotte thinks that. I'm Sherlock.”
I roll my eyes, because they both know I think they're equally good at, um, well, you know. Sex, Charlotte, say sex. If you're mature enough to do it, you're mature enough to say it.
“Neither of you is Sherlock,” Church says, pausing on the corner of Main and Adamson (yep, the road that goes up the hill to the school is that cleverly named), and looking down the long length of empty sidewalk at the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, ringed in ominous shadows. “I am Sherlock. Ranger is Watson. You'd both be lucky to be our faithful bloodhounds. Now shush.”
Church pulls out a set of keys from his pocket and leads us across the street, and down a narrow alley behind the row of businesses. I recognize the bookstore right away, from the cute little bistro sets sitting on the outdoor patio. The weather's a bit too cold to sit outside right now, so they're chained together in stacks and pushed under the overhang. The lights, however, are still on.
I don't see anyone, but my heart is racing like crazy, and my palms are soaked in sweat. I'm a terrible sleuth, that much I can promise.
“Come on,” Church says, unlocking the back door to the business just next door. On the other side, there's a parking lot and the side entrance to the Jaw Flapper, the same one the twins dragged me through last year. He ushers us all in and locks the door behind us, his blond hair bright, even in the dark.
“What's the plan?” Spencer asks, picking up a glass clown and shuddering as he sets it aside. “No wonder I've never been in this store before,” he adds under his breath.
“This is Closet and Trunk Antiques,” Church says, not bothering to whisper, but not raising his voice either. “My father bought my mother's engagement ring from here when they were seventeen.” He looks around, using what little light is trickling in from the orange streetlamp outside to see. Subconsciously, I rub at the ring on my finger and Church smiles. “And yes, that one, too.”
“You bought a used ring?” Spencer asks, giving Church a look. “You? Of all people? How much was it?”
“In some instances—rare instances—tradition is more important than price.” Church moves away from the door and toward a set of stairs with a chain across them, and an Employees Only sign dangling in the middle. He moves it out of his way as I stand there, short of breath, bathed in the shadows of the antique shop. It has a bit of a musty smell, but it's got a hominess to it that I like.
“I've never been in an antique shop at night,” I whisper, even though it's obvious that we don't need to be quite so silent. “It's equal parts creepy and cool.”
“You’re only saying that because you don’t know about the ghosts that haunt this place,” the twins whisper, coming up on either side of me and parking their elbows on my shoulders.
“There's no such thing as ghosts,” I snort, but they exchange a look over my head and then shrug.
“Only people who are truly afraid of ghosts say such things,” Tobias continues, pretending to look around the looming shapes of old wardrobes and ancient rocking chairs, like he's on the lookout for something.
“Jenica wasn't the only person to be murdered in this town,” Micah whispers, after a quick glance over his shoulder to see that Ranger's fully climbed the stairs after Church. “Back around that same time, there was a foreign exchange student who was found dead in the local park. There were no signs of trauma, no evidence of a struggle, but he was clutching the key to this very store, the store where he'd been working part-time.”
“Okay, that's enough of that crap,” Spencer says, yanking me away from the snickering redheaded demon assholes. “There was a kid who died in the park, but the coroner determined it was insulin shock. Ignore them.” He takes my hand in his, squeezing it hard, and then tugs me up the steps to an office area. Antiques clutter this portion of the store, too, but it's clean and well-kempt. A stray shaft of moonlight highlights a ledger that's been carefully scribbled in. Looks like this store is in the red—big time. Maybe whoever runs it should try using a computer? I bite my lip and glance at the open door that leads to yet another set of stairs, these ones narrow and steep and most definitely not up to modern code requirements.
