Chapter 7 Research Begins (Declan POV)
The administrative building is dark at 2:47 AM, which makes it either the perfect time for breaking and entering or the worst, depending on your perspective.
I pick the lock on the side entrance, a skill Elena taught me when I was twelve, back when she thought rebellion was romantic rather than fatal. The mechanism clicks open with satisfying precision, and I slip inside, easing the door closed behind me with barely a whisper of sound.
The hallway smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution. Emergency exit signs cast everything in red-tinged shadows, making the trophy cases lining the walls look vaguely sinister. Past achievements frozen in glass: lacrosse championships, academic honors, photographs of smiling students who probably never imagined their school would become the epicenter of a murder investigation.
Tyler Morrison's face stares out from one of the photos, last year's Concordance Committee announcement. He's standing between two other students, looking proud and optimistic and utterly unaware that in twelve months, someone would tear his throat out.
I force myself to look away and move deeper into the building.
The administrative office is on the second floor, past the guidance counselor's suite and the registrar's reception area. I've been here before for official heir business, meetings about Concordance preparations, discussions about pack representation on student council. The kind of tedious bureaucracy that comes with being Garrett Hale's son.
Usually, I'm escorted. Tonight, I'm trespassing.
The office door is locked, but it's a standard pin tumbler mechanism that yields to my lockpick in under thirty seconds. I slip inside and close the door, then pull out my phone to use as a flashlight. The beam cuts through darkness, illuminating filing cabinets, a desk cluttered with paperwork, and a computer that's password protected.
I ignore the computer, too much risk of triggering security alerts, and head straight for the filing cabinets. They're organized alphabetically by student last name, which means Morrison, Tyler should be in the M drawer.
The drawer slides open with a metallic scrape that sounds thunderous in the quiet. I wince, freezing to listen for any indication I've been heard.
Nothing. Just my own heartbeat doing its best impression of a drum solo.
I flip through the folders: Mitchell, Monahan, Montgomery, Morrison. There are two Morrison files, Tyler and Wesley. I pull Tyler's and spread it open on the desk.
Standard academic records at first glance. Transcripts showing above-average grades, nothing spectacular. Disciplinary record clean. Extracurricular activities include Concordance Committee, debate club, and the environmental conservation group. A model student, by all accounts.
But tucked in the back, behind the official paperwork, I find what I'm looking for: a manila folder labeled "Personal Research - Confidential."
My hands are steady as I open it, but my pulse kicks up another notch.
Inside are photocopied pages from what looks like old Academy yearbooks and student registries. Tyler has highlighted certain names in yellow, drawn arrows connecting them, scribbled notes in the margins. His handwriting is cramped and urgent, the penmanship of someone racing against time.
Eight names total, highlighted across different years:
Sarah Blackwood - Transferred 2008 David Park - Transferred 2009 Jennifer Reyes - Transferred 2008 Michael Torres - Transferred 2007 Hannah Kimura - Transferred 2009 Robert Lancaster - Transferred 2008 Sophie Zhang - Transferred 2007 Gabriel Cross - Transferred 2009
The dates cluster around fifteen to seventeen years ago. And next to each name, Tyler has written the same notation: "No forwarding records. No trace in pack registries."
I pull out my phone and start photographing pages, trying to capture every detail. Tyler's notes reference something called "The Transition Program"—a supposed initiative for students who needed to transfer to different academies for "specialized support." But when Tyler tried to verify where these students went, he hit dead ends.
No forwarding schools listed. No graduation records. No pack affiliations after their transfers.
Eight students who simply vanished from all official records.
One note in particular catches my attention, written in the margin next to Gabriel Cross's name: "Mother Elena Hale? Verify relationship."
My blood runs cold.
Gabriel Cross. Elena's surname was Hale when she died, but before joining Nightshade pack... I'd never thought to ask what her birth name was. What if she had a son before she had a daughter? What if Gabriel Cross is Rowan's half-brother?
I'm so absorbed in the implications that I don't hear the footsteps until they're right outside the door.
The knob turns.
I have maybe two seconds to react. Not enough time to hide, not enough time to escape through the window. I do the only thing I can—I straighten up, arrange my expression into something approximating official business, and prepare to bluff my way through this.
The overhead lights flicker on, harsh and fluorescent.
Wesley Morrison stands in the doorway.
He's sixteen, lanky in that adolescent way where his limbs seem slightly too long for his body. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hair disheveled. He's wearing sweatpants and a Thornhaven hoodie that looks like it hasn't been washed in days.
He looks at me. Looks at the open file on the desk. Looks at his brother's name on the folder.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?"
His voice cracks on the last word—rage and grief colliding into something raw and dangerous.
I close the file with deliberate calm. "I could ask you the same thing."
"This is my brother's file." Wesley's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You're the Nightshade heir. You have no right…"
"I have every right." I inject as much Alpha authority into my voice as I can muster without actually using the command. "There's been a murder on campus. Your brother's murder. I'm investigating."
"Investigating?" He takes a step into the room, and I can smell the grief on him, acrid and overwhelming, mixed with the particular musk of a wolf on the edge of control. "The investigation is over. They caught her. That human bitch killed Tyler and…"
"Watch your mouth." The words come out sharper than intended.
Wesley's eyes narrow. "Why do you care? Everyone knows you hate her. You've made her life hell for three years."
It's true enough that I can't deny it without raising suspicion. So I don't try.
"Hatred and justice aren't mutually exclusive," I say instead. "I want to make sure the evidence against Rowan Ashford is airtight. Ironclad. So when the trial comes, there's no room for doubt, no possibility of appeal, no chance she escapes what she deserves."
Wesley needs to believe I'm on his side—that I want Rowan convicted as much as he does.