Page 23 of Where The Devil Kneels

The library door stands partially open, a sliver of golden light spilling into the hallway. Not moonlight, lamplight. Warm, artificial, betraying Maeve’s presence. I approach slowly, careful to stay in the shadows, and peer through the narrow opening.

Maeve stands at my desk, a small flashlight clenched between her teeth as she rifles through stacks of documents. My property deeds, historical records, and the architectural plans I’ve been piecing together, all spread across the surface in disarray. Her normally perfect hair is slightly mussed, her silk pyjamas wrinkled, as if she’s been at this for hours. But it’s the intensity in her eyes that sends ice through my veins; this isn’t casual snooping. She’s searching for something specific, something important enough to risk getting caught.

I push the door open fully, flipping on the overhead light in one smooth motion. “What are you doing?”

Maeve startles violently, papers scattering as she whirls to face me. The flashlight drops from her mouth, clattering against the desk. For one unguarded moment, naked panic crosses her features before she schools her expression back to something approaching calm.

“Elara,” she manages, one hand pressed against her chest as if to steady her racing heart. “You scared me.”

I lean against the door frame and cross my arms. “Well, isn’t this cozy. I must’ve missed the chapter in Emily Post where midnight ransacking counts as acceptable houseguest behaviour.” I step into the room, taking in the explosion of papers across my desk. “Did you at least find what you were looking for? Or should I just leave my financial records on the kitchen table so you don’t have to sneak around tomorrow night?”

She attempts a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. All those strange noises you’ve grown accustomed to.” Her hand waves vaguely, dismissively. “I thought I’d do some light reading.”

“Property deeds and structural blueprints?” I move closer, noting which sections she’s been focusing on: the original foundation plans, the property boundary documents. “Quite the bedtime story.”

“Professional curiosity.” She begins gathering the papers into a haphazard stack, movements too quick, too jerky. “Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. Old properties like this often have fascinating legal histories.”

I slam my palm on the desk. “Stop. Lying. To. Me.” The chandelier above us gives a little shudder. “You’ve been looking for something since you walked through that door. Those little glances at dinner. The questions about the structure of the house. And now I find you going through my personal documents at three in the morning?” I sweep my arm across the desk and papers scatter to the floor between us. “What are you actually doing here, Maeve? And so help me God, if you lie to me one more time, you won’t make it to morning.”

She straightens, a flash of the courtroom warrior replacing the flustered woman of moments ago. “I told you—I’m concerned about you. About your attachment to this place.”

“Bullshit.” The word hangs between us, stark and undeniable. “Try again.”

Something shifts in her expression, calculation, resignation, and determination cycling in quick succession. She sets down the papers she’s been clutching and meets my gaze directly.

“Fine. You want honesty? I’m trying to help you understand what you’ve gotten yourself into.” Her voice drops, eyes darting briefly to the corners of the room. “This house isn’t what you think it is.”

“And you know better than I do? You who’ve spent all of twelve hours here?”

“I know what Lyle Garrow told me,” she snaps, something almost like fear flickering behind her professional facade. “About the history here. About the people who’ve disappeared over the years. About the… incidents.”

My blood runs cold. How much does she know? How much has Garrow told her about the sanctuary, about the Watcher, about the generations of Merricks who’ve protected the vulnerable?

“What exactly did Garrow tell you?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice level.

Maeve’s shoulders drop. She rubs her temple with two fingers, eyes closing briefly before meeting mine again. “Garrowcornered me outside the courthouse three weeks ago. Started with concern about you living in what he called a ‘death trap waiting to collapse.’ Then came the offer, a ‘community preservation consultation’ with a five-figure retainer if I could persuade you to let the town take over the property.”

The word “bribe” sits in my mouth like something sour. My hands curl into fists, nails pressing into my palms. “He bought you,” I whisper. Then louder, my voice cracking with it: “He fucking bought you to manipulate me.”

Maeve’s lips tighten. “He offered compensation for professional services,” she says, the words crisp and rehearsed. “I declined initially. Then the files appeared on my desk, police reports, witness statements. Detailed accounts of tenants who arrived full of hope and simply…” Her voice catches. She meets my gaze, her eyes wide and glassy in the dim light. “There’s something in these walls, Elara. The town elders know it. They’ve been burying the evidence for decades.”

A laugh comes out of me before I can stop it. “You believed him?” My voice is shaking. “Some small-town bureaucrat waving files around, and you took his word over the cousin who’s known you since we were in cribs.”

“I believed the documentation he showed me.” Her voice hardens. “Police reports. Missing persons cases. Structural assessments declaring parts of this house are unsafe for habitation.” She takes a step towards me, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight. “Whatever you think you’ve found here—whatever connection you feel to this crumbling pile of wood and stone—it’s not worth your safety.”

I grip the edge of the desk, my voice dropping to a whisper. “How. Fucking. Long?” I lean forward until I can see her pupils contract. “While you were sending me Christmas cards? While you were standing next to me at my parents’ funeral? I want to know exactly when you decided to sell me out.”

“This isn’t about—”

My voice fractures between rage and heartbreak. “How. Long.” Each word drops like a stone between us, and I hate that even now, some childish part of me hopes she’ll have an explanation that lets me forgive her.

She looked away, a flush creeping up her neck. “Since you inherited the property. Garrow reached out the day after the will was transferred.”

The betrayal hits me like a physical blow. All these months of Maeve’s “concerned” phone calls, her questions about my plans for the estate, her offers to help with the legal paperwork, all of it orchestrated in partnership with Garrow.

“Get out.” My voice shakes with fury I barely recognize. “Pack your things and get out of my fucking house.”

“Elara, be reasonable—”