The moonlight spilled through the tall windows of the dusty historian's office, casting long, fragile shadows across the wooden floor. Isabelle's breath was shallow as she stood in the doorway, her hand clutching the journal so tightly her fingers ached. She had tracked down the historian—the last key to unlocking the mysteries surrounding Evelyn and Margaret. But the truth had a way of being slippery, of hiding behind faces and masks, and she knew, deep down, that this man was not what he appeared to be.
The office was quiet except for the soft rustling of papers and the ticking of an old clock. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that seemed to stare at her with an ancient, accusing silence. But it wasn't the books that held her attention now. It was him. The historian.
As she stepped inside, the door creaked, drawing his attention. He looked up from his desk, his sharp, calculating eyes meeting hers. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the weight of their shared history hanging between them like a storm cloud.
"You've come," he said quietly, a thin smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't rise to greet her. There was something unsettling about his calm demeanor, something predatory in the way he regarded her. He knew exactly why she was here.
Isabelle's voice was steady, though the tension in her body told a different story. "I know who you are. You're Reverend Alden's grandson."
His smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Isabelle to see the flicker of fear in his eyes.
"Not just his grandson," he said with a soft chuckle, "but his successor, if you will. We've been curating the town's history for generations. Editing, shaping it to fit our narrative. You see, the truth is rarely as simple as it seems. It's… malleable."
Isabelle's heart skipped a beat. "Curating the truth?" she echoed, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "You've been lying to everyone—manipulating history for your family's gain."
The historian's face remained impassive, his gaze never leaving her. He leaned back in his chair, as if the weight of what he had said didn't affect him at all. "The world doesn't like the truth, Isabelle. It's messy, uncomfortable. It shatters everything people believe in. My family's work has been to protect that—protect them—by ensuring that the past remains intact. And that includes Evelyn Bellamy and Margaret Elwood. Their story is dangerous. It always has been."
Isabelle's grip on the journal tightened as the words sank in. The historian, with all his calm and composure, was a part of this monstrous machine of deceit. He had been hiding the truth for decades, twisting it, shaping it to serve his family's legacy.
"Margaret didn't deserve what happened to her," Isabelle said, her voice cold now, "and neither did Evelyn. You've hidden their story for far too long. It ends tonight."
The historian's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes narrowing. "You think you can stop it, Isabelle? You think you can undo the work of generations? You have no idea what you're dealing with."
With a swift motion, he reached under his desk, and Isabelle's eyes flickered down to where he had hidden something—a lighter. Before she could react, he flicked the flame to life, holding it up to the edge of the journal.
"No!" Isabelle shouted, her heart leaping into her throat.
The flame crackled as it danced near the paper, threatening to consume it. She bolted forward, her body fueled by adrenaline. She wasn't going to let him destroy everything she had worked for, everything Evelyn and Margaret had suffered for.
In one fluid motion, Isabelle lunged at the desk, her hand swiping the journal away from the flames just as the edges began to singe. Her heart pounded in her chest as she gripped the journal tightly, barely escaping the fire's wrath. The historian cursed under his breath, reaching for her, but Isabelle was already moving—backpedaling toward the door.
"Get out!" the historian shouted, his voice dark with fury. "You don't know what you're doing. The truth will ruin you! It will ruin us all!"
Isabelle didn't pause to respond. She didn't care about his threats, his promises. All that mattered now was the journal, the only thing left that could reveal the truth. She had already lost so much to this twisted web of lies, but she wasn't going to lose this. Not now. Not when she was so close to the answers.
She dashed for the door, hearing the historian's footsteps follow her in hot pursuit. He wasn't about to let her escape with his family's legacy intact. But Isabelle had the advantage—she knew the layout of the house. She had been through these halls before, had walked its dark corridors while unraveling the lies it had been built upon.
Just as she reached the door, he lunged forward, grabbing her arm. Isabelle twisted, breaking free from his grip with a strength she hadn't known she possessed. The journal pressed against her chest as she stumbled back, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
"Stay away from me!" Isabelle shouted, her eyes flashing with fury.
The historian stood in the doorway, his hands still raised in warning. "You'll regret this. You don't know what you've unleashed. My family's power runs deep in this town. You're playing with fire."
But Isabelle didn't wait for his threats to continue. She bolted out the door and into the cold night air, the sound of his footsteps echoing behind her as she ran. The journal was safe for now, but she knew it wouldn't be long before he came after her. They were too close to the truth, and he would stop at nothing to keep it buried.
She sprinted through the streets, her breath coming in desperate gasps. The wind whipped through her hair, but Isabelle didn't care. She couldn't stop. Not when the journal was still intact, not when the answers were within her reach.
And yet, despite the fear and the urgency, Isabelle couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted—that she had crossed a line she could never return from. The historian's warning echoed in her mind, a promise of something far darker than she had ever imagined.
She had only just begun to understand the magnitude of the web she had stepped into.
But there was no turning back now.