Hannah. (Van Den Bosch #7)

Chapter 14

14

Hannah

The morning after our unexpected rendezvous at Parker’s Tavern is a chaotic blur. I wake up with a throbbing headache, and the realization that I overslept hits me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t even have that much to drink, but it feels like I’ve been out on some bender.

Jumping out of bed, I hastily throw on clean clothes, barely managing to tie my hair into a messy bun. My heart races as I grab my bag, textbooks, and keys, making a mental checklist to avoid forgetting anything. Circling back for a forgotten item will only make it worse.

In my rush, I almost leave without my phone. As I snatch it up, a few notifications catch my eye, but there isn’t any time for that right now. I’ll have to check it once I get to class.

I dash through campus, weaving through a sea of students, the bustling energy around me intensifying my anxiety. Everyone else seems so bright and well put together, and I can’t even say that I’m completely awake yet. Arriving at the lecture hall, I skid to a stop, catching my breath. Okay, I’ve made it, and I’m only a few minutes late. Hopefully, the professor––

Oh no. No, no, no. Only now is it hitting me that this is the class that Johan is substituting for! Of all the damn classes to be late for.

There’s nothing I can do about it, though. It’s not like I can skip, especially after spending the previous evening in his company. Inhaling slowly, I enter with my head down, hoping not to be noticed. The room is already filled with students, and Johan stands at the front, engrossed in his lecture.

As I enter, I can’t help but notice how all eyes turn immediately toward me, amplifying the awkwardness. Haven’t these people ever seen someone arrive late before? Surely, it isn’t that interesting. I avoid Johan’s gaze, opting for an inconspicuous spot near the back. Everyone seems so quiet, though.

“Good of you to join us. We’ve already started,” he waves towards the whiteboard where he’s been writing for the class, adding, “as you can see.”

I offer a sheepish smile but only meet his eye for the shortest time possible. I’m desperate to be out of the limelight. Settling on a seat, I attempt to immerse myself in the class material, but Johan’s presence makes concentration elusive. The lingering effects of last night’s alcohol and the way our time together had felt so intimate, even in the crowd, add a surreal layer to the situation. He seems like such a different person when teaching, but I guess that’s intentional. But still…there is this affection towards him that I can’t shake. I wonder if he is feeling the same.

The class drones on, minutes stretching into an eternity. My thoughts waver between embarrassment and a strange giddiness. The dynamics between us have shifted, and navigating this new territory feels like tiptoeing through a minefield. Like last night we’re in a room full of people, but all I see is him.

Johan tells us to take out our textbooks, and as I fumble to get it out of my backpack, I spot my phone, remembering the notifications. As discreetly as possible, I open my messages and almost perish when I see what awaits me.

There are two of them–one from Johan and one from Conrad. My heart leaps seeing Johan’s and remembering the overly brave, brief text I had sent him the night before, but when I open it, my heart hits the floor instead.

Johan’s message is brief and businesslike: Where are you? It’s time for class.

There are no messages from me before that, at least not recently, which means…

Feeling a ball of panic forming in my chest, I open the other message. Compared to Johan’s brusque message, Conrad’s is surprisingly warm but wholly unwelcome:

I agree. It was lovely. Thank you, Hannah, and see you soon. X.

Above it, of course, is the playful message I meant for Johan. How in the heck did I manage to mess this up!? I guess I was more intoxicated than I thought, but that doesn’t take away any of the burning embarrassment I’m dealing with right now. Embarrassment and dread. Poor Conrad. The sentiment alone wouldn’t be problematic, but my stomach twists into knots as I think about how much this will encourage his unwanted romantic advances. I like his friendship, but I’d have to be blind not to notice that he wants more.

Ugh! I can’t believe this is happening. How could I have mixed up their names? I cringe at the thought, desperately wanting to undo my foolish mistake. In an attempt to save face, I quickly shoot off a reply to Conrad, keeping it as neutral as possible, my fingers fumbling over the phone: See you soon.

I try to let it go, open my book to follow along with the lecture, and put my phone back in my bag so it’s out of sight and out of mind. Johan’s words are a distant hum in the background, but no matter how hard I try to concentrate, the weight of my mortification overshadows me.

Despite my internal chaos, Johan manages to infuse the class with humor and bring me back to the present. His questions are well-timed quips, drawing genuine laughter from the students. He effortlessly weaves wit into the subject matter, turning what could be a mundane lecture into an engaging experience.

He asks a few questions during the lecture, and I see him glance in my direction a few times as if he wants me to answer. But my brain is running behind because of everything else, and it isn’t until near the end of the class that I manage to raise my hand, confident of my answer.

Johan then asks the room, “In our discussions about ancient art techniques, has anyone encountered a specific method or style that particularly intrigued them or presented a research challenge?”

Swallowing to calm my nerves, I give him my answer, “The use of mosaics in ancient Roman art has been interesting to me, but deciphering what they used to produce the original colors and how much those colors have changed over time has proved challenging.”

He nods in approval. “Good observation, Hannah. We’ll be exploring that more in the coming weeks.”

Johan continues to pepper his lecture with humor as the class progresses, effortlessly connecting with the students. It’s probably easier for him, having graduated so recently and being close in age to us. The original professor of the class did a phenomenal job in choosing her substitute.

“There will be a test next week,” he announces, prompting a chorus of groans and complaints. “You’d already know that if you had all read the syllabus! But here is a pearl of wisdom for you all.” He pauses for dramatic effect, observing everyone as we become quiet. “If you’re ever feeling overwhelmed, just remember: at least you’re not deciphering ancient hieroglyphs without spell check!”

The chorus of groans repeats itself, but a few of the students, myself included, laugh despite ourselves. His joke might be stupid, but I guess there’s charm in it.

The bell signaling the end of the lecture finally rings, and the classroom starts to empty. I pack my things slowly, glad I have nothing else on my agenda today. I’m dying for a sports drink full of electrolytes and a sandwich to make this hangover at least a little more bearable.

My dorm room greets me with out-of-character chaos when I return—bed unmade, textbooks scattered across the desk, dirty clothes on the floor—clear signs that I left in a hurry this morning. Sitting my book bag down, I start to pick up here and there, but in the process of straightening up, my eyes catch sight of something that looks out of place.

It’s a manila envelope, larger than a normal letter, right in the middle of my desk. Curious, I stop what I’m doing and go to pick it up. Shock ripples through me when I read the gracefully written text on the front of it— To Hannah. From your great-aunt, Amelia.

It’s such a surprise that it takes my breath away. I’ve been so busy and so entrenched in the problems of my social life that I haven’t had much time to think about my great-aunt lately, but here she is, forcing my focus back to her. A million questions flow through my mind—when did she leave this? How did she get in or know where to find me?

Flummoxed, my pulse pounding hard, I fall into my computer chair and carefully open the envelope, not wanting to damage anything inside. It feels stuffed full, which makes sense when I remove not just a letter but a folded map.

Dearest Hannah,

Your grandmother Margaret told me you had made it to Cambridge. I’m sure this is no coincidence. Your path brought you to England, first to my home at Stratford-upon-Avon and now here, where I used to work twenty years ago.

I can’t return for reasons I’m unable to write here, but I need my research files, which are kept at Johan’s office. Speak to him; he shall have access to them.

I’m sure you have thousands of questions for me, so enclosed you will find a map—if I can’t be there to guide you in person, at least I can give you this.

Follow the path before you, and you’ll unlock the stories that linger in the shadows of our family history. It all started with Twelfth Night.

Have the files ready, and we shall meet soon.

With a touch of mischief and a lot of love,

Amelia

A smile plays across my lips, reading the letter. Unfolding the map, I spread it out on my desk and look it over carefully. It displays Cambridge and the surrounding areas, with places conspicuously marked and dotted across the entire college. Unable to contain my excitement, I reach for my phone and dial Johan’s number. No one else on the planet will understand how I’m feeling right now or the anticipation thrumming through my veins. Whatever weirdness might be between us falls away in the face of this new clue in our mystery.

“Hannah?” His voice on the other end is warm and familiar, laced with a touch of surprise. “Is everything okay?”

“Johan,” I say, my voice shaking with my eagerness. “Amelia left me a letter and a map. Where are you, and can we meet up?”

Johan’s research office comes into view, and I must admit, it feels odd to be here for the first time in the hallway of his department. Standing before his door, I knock a few times, my pulse quickening in anticipation. I hope no one recognizes me. The last thing I need is someone to go and tell Astrid about our little encounter. The door opens with a click, and Johan’s bright face appears.

“Hey,” he says upon seeing me.

I feel a flush go from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. He’s removed the tweed suit jacket he wore during class and is in a pale blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and fitted navy slacks. He’s so effortlessly handsome and magnetic that I briefly consider two inappropriate things–throwing myself at him or running away.

“Hey,” I reply, unable to take my eyes off him.

Breaking the tension, Johan flashes a teasing smile. “Fashionably late, Miss Van den Bosch? I believe we discussed punctuality in class.” His tone is playful, as if he’s inviting me to let go of the undeniable energy between us.

I chuckle, playing along as my muscles start to relax. “Well, Professor, it’s not every day that one embarks on a treasure hunt.”

Johan’s laughter rings through the room, dissipating the remaining unease. “Ugh, please don’t call me professor when we aren’t in class.”

In my mind, a decision takes root—whatever I assumed we both felt last night will have to be left by the wayside. Johan hasn’t given me any indication that he felt the same, and my silly crush means so little compared to these new clues from Amelia. Wanting him how I do isn’t doing me any good, and I need his help now more than ever.

“Fine,” I concede. “No ‘Professor’ outside of class. Do you want to see what she left me or what?”

“Make yourself at home.” He steps aside, lets me in, and closes the door immediately.

Standing in the middle of his office, I can’t help but pace around, my eyes darting at every corner, the venerable walls whispering centuries of scholarly pursuit. The room is modest but steeped in academic charm, with towering bookshelves crammed with leather-bound tomes and stacks of papers on archaeology. Sunlight filters through the tall, mullioned windows, casting a warm glow over the cluttered desk. The desk itself is a landscape of ongoing projects: open journals, a scattering of field notes, and a laptop humming quietly. Maps and photographs from fieldwork are pinned haphazardly on a cork-board, showcasing diverse cultures and ancient civilizations. Every corner of the room is utilized, with filing cabinets filled with meticulously categorized documents and artifacts.

Behind the desk, a comfortable, slightly worn chair suggests long hours of study and writing. On the walls, I find framed portraits of scholars who came before him.

Johan stands beside me, following my gaze. “They remind me of the legacy I strive to contribute to.”

This room is not just an office; it’s a sanctuary where history, culture, and research blend seamlessly, fueling Johan’s passion for uncovering the human story.

“This place suits you,” I tell him, my words sincere.

“Thanks.” Our eyes lock for a moment, our lips smiling at each other, and his proximity makes my heart flutter. When we realize what’s happening, Johan clears his throat and averts his gaze from mine. “So, let’s see what Amelia left you.”

Eager to share my treasures, I take the letter and map from my bag and hand them to Johan. With gentle hands, Johan takes them each, one at a time, reading the letter first. Once he’s finished, he opens the map, and it unfurls across the table, the thick parchment needing some smoothing to lay flat. Johan leans in, fingers tracing the same lines I’ve studied a few times since I first opened the map.

“Let’s see what exactly Amelia wants us to do here,” he muses, pulling the bright lamp attached to the desk lower to see every little detail on the map. “She has two places marked out, and the first one is the Wren Library.” He looks up from the map to give me a lopsided grin, a lock of his hair falling over his forehead. “Care for a little field trip?”

Our first Amelia-led expedition takes us through the narrow cobblestone streets leading to the historic Wren Library. Johan’s expertise shines as he deftly maneuvers through campus. He doesn’t rush ahead of me, though, and our walk gives me so much pleasure, even if we are just on the way to solve a mystery. Would he spend time with me if we weren’t working towards a common purpose? I’m not sure, but I’m also not going to worry myself about it. I want to enjoy the here and now.

Approaching the Wren Library feels like walking into a scene from a movie set in academia. The outside has a classic red- brick charm, but its age is readily apparent. Stepping through the heavy wooden doors is like entering a different time.

Inside, it’s full of old, towering stacks. Sunlight spills in through big windows, giving the place a warm, inviting glow. The sturdy oak tables have seen their fair share of scholarly pursuits, and the white walls and ceiling alleviate some of the classic library stuffiness.

Again, I am infinitely thankful for his help when Johan’s authority gives us access to the restricted areas of the library. Something tells me that whatever we need to find isn’t going to be easily accessible.

“This place is enormous,” I whisper to him, taking in my surroundings. “How are we supposed to find anything in here?”

“Have a little faith,” Johan whispers back, and feeling his breath on the shell of my ear makes me shiver.

Johan leads the way with a confident stride; his enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I actually believe that we will be able to find some resolution today.

As the minutes pass, some of that belief begins to dwindle. We haven’t found anything yet, but digging into the heart of the library, there is a simple joy of just being with Johan. Watching him work and seeing how brilliant he is are worth any amount of time we have to spend here.

Being with Johan in this pursuit feels surprisingly easy. The lines of our friendship blur with casual touches and simmering attraction. When he brushes my lower back with his hands as he passes by me or gently clasps my arm as we’re speaking, I feel like I could go up in flames right here on the spot.

We exchange glances, smiles, and the occasional shared discovery with an unspoken understanding. The layers of formality seem to peel away bit by bit.

The joy of the moment isn’t lost on me–-the laughter that escapes when we stumble upon a particularly quirky book, the shared excitement of deciphering cryptic clues, and the ease with which Johan navigates the shelves. Together in the Wren Library, the mystery at hand becomes a joint endeavor, and Johan’s company transforms the pursuit of knowledge into something undeniably fun.

Things come to a head when, intent on our mission, Johan and I move simultaneously towards a certain tome. Our fingers graze the book’s spine, and for a fleeting moment, time seems to halt. There’s a spark, a subtle jolt that resonates through the contact of our hands–an unexpected surge of energy that catches us both off guard.

In that fraction of a second, the air crackles with unspoken tension. Our eyes meet, a shared recognition of the charged atmosphere between us. “Hannah,” he breathes, but right when I think he’s going to say something more, Johan stops himself, turns away, and takes the book with him. “We finally got it. The first edition of Twelfth Night .”

Damn. For a second there, I was sure he would confess something. Anything. I just want to know that I’m not alone in this yearning.

Johan takes the book to one of the desks and flips the light on. Amelia’s map had marked the Wren Library with a tiny drawing of a rose and number 1. Johan and I must have had the same idea at the same time, connecting the rose to a specific scene in the play.

I give him his space, but it only takes minutes for Johan to call for me quietly. “Hannah, come look at this.”

On the page where Viola, disguised as Cesario, uses a metaphor involving a rosebud when speaking with Orsino, there is a minuscule drawing of a rose near the inner crease, just like on Amelia’s map. A spike of adrenaline runs through me when I see it.

“There it is!” I say, letting out a gasp. “What does it mean, Johan?”

“I’m not sure,” he leans back in his chair, contemplating the finding. “In this metaphor, Viola compares unexpressed love to a worm that destroys a rosebud from within, suggesting that hidden love can cause internal decay and sorrow.”

I can’t help but nod in understanding, relating to those words more than he could ever know.

Johan’s fingers trace the delicate lines of the rose on the page. His brow furrows as he thinks, his mind visibly churning through possibilities. He looks up at me, eyes sharp with realization. “Hannah, can I see the map again?” he asks.

I pull the map from my bag and spread it out on the desk beside the book. Johan and I examine it closely, our heads almost touching as we lean in. There, in the lower corner of the map, is the number 2 with a circle around it, positioned in the area that includes the Botanic Garden.

“The botanic garden,” I whisper. “Do you think that’s where we need to go next?”

Johan nods slowly. “It makes sense. The number 2 logically would indicate where to go next, and the circle includes a few random buildings and the botanic garden. Plus, there must be roses in the botanic garden, right?”

“Shall we go and check?”

“Alright, let’s take a picture of this first.” Johan takes his iPhone out and shoots a photo of the page where we found the drawing of the rose.

Then we gather our things quickly, the urgency of our discovery pushing us forward. The garden is just a short walk away, and as we enter it, we are greeted by a burst of colors and fragrances. The garden is expansive, with winding paths leading through meticulously maintained flower beds and towering trees. The air is rich with the scent of blooming flowers, a sweet and heady perfume that envelops us. Birds chirp merrily, and the gentle hum of bees can be heard as they flit from flower to flower.

We walk down the gravel paths, passing by vibrant displays of seasonal plants and rare, botanical specimens. The glasshouses glisten in the sunlight, housing exotic plants from around the world. It’s a haven of tranquility, a sharp contrast to the bustling city just outside its gates.

Our footsteps crunch on the gravel paths, echoing in the quiet of the garden. We head straight for the area marked on the map, a section known for its beautiful roses. The garden is extensive, and finding the specific rose bush isn’t as straightforward as we hoped. We weave between the rows, the roses in full bloom, their colors ranging from soft pastels to deep, rich reds.

We search for several minutes, our eyes scanning each bush for something out of the ordinary. The sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground. My heart beats faster with each passing moment, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

“There,” Johan says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. He points to a particularly vibrant rose bush. Tied to one of the stems is a small glass vial. My breath catches as we approach it.

Johan carefully unties the vial and opens it, revealing a rolled-up piece of paper inside. His fingers shake slightly as he unfurls the paper, and we both lean in to read the coded message. It’s a series of numbers and letters, a puzzle that seems to lead us to another location. We sit on a nearby bench, the stone cool beneath us, and decode it together.

“Look at this sequence,” Johan says, pointing to the string of numbers and letters. “It looks like coordinates or a coded message. Let’s break it down.”

I nod, my mind racing. “We should look for a pattern. Maybe it’s a simple substitution cipher.”

We spend the next few minutes working through the code, our heads bent together over the paper. Johan scribbles notes, his handwriting hurried but precise. I follow along, trying to spot any familiar patterns or sequences.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Johan suggests. “Each number corresponds to a letter. For example, A is 1, B is 2, and so on.”

He quickly writes out the alphabet and numbers on a separate piece of paper. “Now, let’s decode the first few letters.”

Johan writes down the first part of the sequence: 6-9-20-26-23-9-12-12-9-1-13.

“F... I... T... Z... W... I... L... L... I... A... M...” He pauses, then looks up at me, eyes bright with excitement. “Fitzwilliam!”

“Fitzwilliam Museum,” I say, the pieces clicking into place. “What about the rest?”

We continue decoding, and the message slowly reveals itself: “M... U... S... E... U... M... S... T... O... R... A... G... E….”

“Museum storage!” I say, understanding dawning. “The next clue is hidden in the Fitzwilliam Museum’s storage area.”

“This is it,” Johan says, excitement and determination in his voice. “Let’s go.”

As we leave the garden, I glance back at the rose bush, feeling a strange connection to Amelia. Our journey continues, each step bringing us closer to uncovering her mystery. And with every clue, I feel more connected to her and to Johan as we navigate this intricate web of secrets together.

The Fitzwilliam Museum stands imposingly before us, its grand facade and majestic columns exuding an air of historical significance. As we step inside, the cool, hushed environment envelops us, a stark contrast to the warm, fragrant air of the Botanic Garden. The museum is a labyrinth of history and art, each room filled with artifacts and treasures from various epochs.

“We need to find the storage area,” Johan whispers, his voice barely audible in the vast, echoing space.

I nod, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The stakes feel higher now, each step bringing us closer to unveiling Amelia’s secrets. We follow the signs leading us deeper into the museum, past exhibits of ancient pottery, Renaissance paintings, and delicate tapestries.

Finally, we reach a door marked “Storage–Authorized Personnel Only.” Johan glances at me, his eyes reflecting the same blend of fear and determination that I feel. With a deep breath, he tries the handle. And of course, it’s locked. As we check the door, I notice it has an electric keypad, reminiscent of those on old phones, with buttons for numbers and corresponding letters.

“There needs to be a seven-digit code,” Johan informs me. “We have the same keyless lock in our department.”

“Oh gosh…and now?” I ask, heaving a long sigh of frustration. “We were so close.”

“Hold on,” he mutters, pulling out his iPhone and checking the picture he took in the library. He opens it and says, “I’m sure the code is hidden in this verse.”

I peer over, glancing briefly at the screen. “Are there any words with seven letters? Rose is just four.”

Johan's eyes light up with a victorious smile. “But rosebud is seven.”

With determination, Johan quickly presses the "7" key for 'R', then the "6" for 'O'. His fingers move swiftly, hitting "7" again for 'S' and "3" for 'E'. Gaining confidence, he taps "2" for ‘B,’ then “8” for ‘U.’ Finally, he presses "3" for 'D', completing the sequence.

We both hold our breath as the lock processes the input. The keypad beeps, the lock clicks open, and we exhale simultaneously, relief washing over us. The door swings open, revealing the way forward, and a sense of accomplishment floods me. We did it.

Johan pushes the handle, creaking the door open, and we hurry inside. The scent of old paper and wood fills the air as we step into the dimly lit storage room. Shelves and boxes line the walls, bathed in slivers of light streaming through high windows, where dust motes dance like tiny stars.

“We need to find the right box,” Johan says, his eyes scanning the labels on the shelves.

We split up, each carefully examining the contents. My fingers trace over faded labels and dusty surfaces, my mind racing with thoughts of what we might discover. The silence is thick, broken only by the rustling of paper and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

After several minutes, Johan’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Hannah, over here.”

I hurry to where he stands, holding a small, unassuming envelope with the word “Rosebud” written on it. His hands tremble slightly as he hands it to me.

“Go ahead, it’s your great-aunt, after all.”

We exchange a look, the gravity of the moment pressing down on us. I open the envelope, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Inside, there’s nothing but a small newspaper clip. My breath catches as I read the headline: “ Cambridge’s Professor kidnapped at the entrance of Globe Theatre during Twelfth Night performance. ” Below, there’s her picture—she’s standing leaning against her desk, glasses on, wearing her hair high. The article is yellowed with age, but the details are clear: Professor Amelia van Wassenaer, head of research of the Department of Archaeology and a well-respected figure in the academic community, vanished without a trace, leaving behind a mystery that has never been solved.

Johan’s eyes widen in shock. “Amelia was kidnapped?” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I had no idea. Why would someone kidnap her?”

My heart aches with the weight of the secret I’ve been carrying for the past two years. Oma had confided in me about Amelia’s disappearance and had insisted I keep it to myself. I wonder if Amelia believed her sister would never disclose such a secret, keeping it hidden even from me.

“She must have been working on something significant.” My voice’s steady despite the turmoil inside. “Something that must have made her a target.”

Johan's brow furrows as he processes the information. “We need to look into her research files,” he says, determination hardening his features. “Maybe there are more clues there.”

I nod, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together. “Let’s go back to your office and find them.”

I carefully place the clip back in the envelope and shove it into my bag. The mystery of Amelia’s disappearance hangs heavily over us as we leave the storage room. Our next steps are clear, but the path ahead is shrouded in uncertainty. Johan reaches out, his hand gently brushing mine. The contact sends a jolt through me, a reminder of the unspoken feelings simmering between us. The air feels thick with the weight of our shared secret, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

“We’re getting closer, Hannah,” he murmurs, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. “We’ll find out what happened to Amelia. I promise.”

I squeeze his hand, drawing strength from his resolve. “I know we will,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

The corridor outside the storage room feels oppressively silent. Each step we take echoes through the empty hallways of the museum, amplifying the tension that crackles between us. My mind races, each thought a flurry of images and questions. Why was Amelia kidnapped? What was she working on that made her a target?

Johan’s grip on my hand tightens, grounding me in the present. I glance at him, noting the determined set of his jaw and the furrow in his brow. He’s processing everything, just as I am, but there’s a fire in his eyes that I’ve rarely seen. It’s a mixture of fear, anger, and an unyielding drive to uncover the truth.

Stepping back into his office, he offers me a seat while he goes to retrieve the papers. I watch him as he starts at his desk, rifling through the piles of papers and journals he’s left somewhat organized. Each stack gets a quick shuffle through, his fingers flipping through pages faster as his frustration grows. Looks like there’s no sign of the folder there.

Johan stops for a moment, his head shaking in thought. “This doesn’t make any sense. I had them right here.”

I search his face, a knot of worry forming in my stomach. “They aren’t here?”

He moves to the bookshelves, scanning the labels, pulling out potential candidates, flipping through the contents, and closing them just as quickly.

I stand behind him, looking on with worry. “They have to be somewhere….”

He opens a few drawers, flickering through the files before moving around to check another shelf. “Maybe I placed them here.” Then he moves to another drawer and opens it. “Or here…. I’ll find them, just a minute.”

“Take your time. I have the whole day.” My remark doesn’t sound as funny as I intended, and I can sense his frustration, which keeps building up.

“I swear I saw them somewhere.” Sweat beads on his forehead as he double-checks some folders, second-guessing himself. The room feels smaller, the walls lined with books and artifacts, watching us in silent judgment as Johan scrambles to find what I need.

“Do you think someone took them?” Disappointment is bitter on my tongue. I missed my chance to see the papers when Johan first found them, and I may never get another opportunity. “Someone from outside the department, perhaps?”

He glances at me, his face contemplative. “It’s a possibility. Last Sunday, I thought I heard footsteps, but I chalked it up to the settling of the building. But maybe there was someone…someone who knew about these papers and came to take them.”

Fear tightens its grip on me, and my voice trembles as I speak. “Footsteps? What footsteps? What could be so important about those documents?”

Johan turns to face me, his gaze steady and reassuring. “I didn’t mention it to anyone because I thought it was just my imagination. I didn’t think much of it then, but now it seems suspicious. Maybe someone took advantage of my absence…but there’s no need to worry, Hannah. I can handle myself.”

Dread settles in my chest as I absorb this new information. “But why? What’s in those papers that someone would want to steal them? Johan…what if you’re in danger?”

Johan’s expression darkens, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. “I don't know, but I promise you, I’ll find out. And I assure you, I’m not in any danger.”

He places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and though uncertainty lingers, Johan's reassurance provides some stability, keeping me from spiraling. I reach up to cover his hand with one of mine, letting his warmth seep into my palms, which have gone cold from worry. “I’d be lost without you, you know that?”

There’s a layered meaning to my words–on the surface, I’m talking about the Amelia mystery, but it’s so much more than that. I won’t tell him that out loud, but I hope so strongly that he hears the unspoken meaning anyway.

There is a clear fondness in his eyes as he rotates his hand so we’re palm to palm, interlacing our fingers and giving my hand a squeeze. “I’ll always be here for you.” After a long moment where we gaze into each other’s eyes, he carefully untangles his hand from mine and steps back. There’s a moment of disappointment, but what do I expect? I rejected him. We can’t be anything except friends.

“Do you want me to escort you back?” he asks, his voice gentle as he glances at his watch. “It’s getting late, and?—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m good.” I try to sound more confident than I feel. “You’ve already done a lot today. I’ll be fine.”

He nods, his eyes lingering on mine a moment longer. “Text me when you get home.” Something in his gaze makes my heart flutter—a mixture of longing and restraint as if he’s holding back a tide of emotions. He blinks abruptly, breaking the spell, and clears his throat. “I should get back to work,” he says, his tone suddenly brisk. “There’s still a lot to go through.”

I force a smile, trying to ignore the ache in my chest. “Right. Of course.”

Johan gives me a final, searching look before turning back to his desk. I watch him, his shoulders tense with the weight of unspoken words. He sits down, already engrossed in the papers scattered before him. I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, and head toward the door.

As I reach the hallway, I pause and glance back. Johan is focused, but there’s a rigidity in his posture that speaks volumes. I can’t help but wonder if he’s as affected by all this as I am. With a sigh, I step out into the corridor, the quiet of the building amplifying the sound of my footsteps.

The walk back to my place feels longer than usual, the weight of the day pressing down on me. The city is calming down, but the streets of Cambridge are still lively. Students head to and from pubs, their laughter and chatter filling the air. The hustle and bustle contrasts sharply with the turmoil in my mind.

When I finally reach my door, I hesitate for a moment, the stillness of the night pressing in around me. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re standing on the edge of something monumental—something that could change everything. And through it all, Johan’s presence is a constant, his support unwavering.

Inside, I settle into bed, the emptiness of the room mirroring the emptiness I feel over the stolen research files. Most of Amelia’s work had been meticulously documented, and now, all those pieces of the puzzle are gone. The sense of loss is overwhelming.

My mind keeps drifting back to Johan. His touch, his words, the way he looked at me with such intensity—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. I push the thoughts aside and try to think logically about our next steps. We need to uncover who took the files and why. Minutes pass in a blur, the night deepening outside my window. The more I think, the more questions arise. Without the files, the full picture remains frustratingly out of reach. Suddenly, my phone buzzes, breaking the silence. It’s a message from Johan: Did you get home safely?

I reply quickly: Yes, I’m home. Thank you for checking.

His response is immediate: Goodnight, Hannah. Be safe.

I smile at the screen, a warmth spreading through me. No matter what happens, I know we’re in this together.