CHAPTER 1
An explosive bang was Darius Knight’s first clue of impending danger.
“We’re trapped.” The tension in Dr. Peyton Harris’s voice sealed the deal.
Darius rose from his crouched position beside a box of old folders in Trinity Falls University’s archive room. The cramped room measured approximately forty-five by thirty-five feet and was a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare.
He navigated the space between two of the glorified bookcases stuffed with a hodgepodge of dented and dusty boxes of historical documents. Once he’d emerged into the main aisle, he crossed to Peyton. The university’s history professor wrestled with the doorknob as though unwilling to believe the evidence in her hands.
“Let me try.” Darius waited for Peyton to make room for him.
The top of her head just reached his shoulders. The powdery fragrance of her perfume was a blessed relief from the bitter stink of mold and age that blossomed around them.
Peyton stepped aside with obvious reluctance. Darius pressed down on the door’s long, thin copper handle. It didn’t budge, not even a little. His gaze dropped to the floor.
“Where’s the door stopper?” Darius had watched Peyton kick the triangular block of blond wood into place beneath the door with the toe of her navy pumps. The wood should have kept the door open.
Peyton’s caramel eyes widened in her honey-and-chocolate-cream face. “It must be on the other side of the door.”
“Someone locked us in.” And there was nothing they could do until that person chose to let them out.
Darius returned to the bookshelves to continue his documents search. His greatest concern was suffocating on the sour stench of his surroundings. Already his eyes were tearing.
“Why would someone do that?” Peyton’s disbelief followed him into the stacks.
Hadn’t she noticed the pointed comments and questions people made about them? Doreen Fever, manager of the café at Books & Bakery, had known him almost his entire life. Why was she now confusing his lunch orders with Peyton’s whenever they were in the café at the same time? Was it to force them to interact with each other?
Darius stepped out of the book stacks and countered her question with one of his own. “How did you get assigned to take me to the archives?”
He watched the little professor smooth her hair. She’d pulled the rich copper mass into a tight bun at the nape of her slim neck. When he’d met her in July—four months ago—she’d worn her hair in a loose riot of curls that had framed her heart-shaped face. He preferred it that way.
“Foster asked me.” Peyton referred to Foster Gooden, the university’s vice president for academic affairs. “He said you needed information on Dr. Hartford’s accomplishments at TFU for your article.” She glanced around the room. “I hadn’t realized the archives were such a mess.”
Dr. Kenneth Hartford, chair of the history department, was retiring after thirty-five years with the university.
“You didn’t have to agree.” Darius leaned his shoulder against the side of the bookshelf and surveyed the archives.
This wasn’t his first foray into the dingy room. He’d known it was a disaster. Foster insisted the university didn’t have enough money to hire an archivist to maintain its historical files. Until they came into some sort of windfall—Foster’s words—the room would remain as is.
On one side of the subterranean space, mismatched gray metal shelves and mahogany bookcases strained to hold archival records. On the other side, an explosion of papers buried scarred wooden desks and battered metal cabinets. They’d been left behind by people who were unaware or uncaring of the importance of recording the university’s history. A maze of boxes formed an obstacle course in the space in between.
The archives’ one salvation was a blue binder that struggled to maintain its position on top of an abused clerical desk. The binder cataloged the decades-old boxes that someone had labeled—unlike the newer arrivals, which were anyone’s guess. Somewhere in one of those boxes was information on the honors program Dr. Hartford had revamped and the master’s of political science program he’d created. Darius hoped he found the documents soon. He could use some fresh air. Or another whiff of Peyton’s perfume.
Peyton crossed her arms over her chest. “Why wouldn’t I take you to the archives?”
“Because you still don’t trust me.” Darius held her caramel eyes.
P
eyton dropped her arms and her gaze. She checked her watch, letting the silence grow. “I wish I’d brought my cell phone.”
She didn’t deny not trusting him. Why did that bother him so much? “You wouldn’t have gotten reception down here.”
“Then how are we going to get out?”
Darius checked his silver Timex wristwatch, which displayed the image of Batman’s bat-signal in the center. It was almost ten-thirty on this Friday morning in mid-October. “Give it twenty minutes or so. Someone will come.” He returned to the files he’d been searching.