Under the Rose

by Kathryn Nolan

  He was holding a glass. “Would this help?” he whispered.

  “Very old-school,” I whispered. I crooked a finger. “Come listen.” I dug through my bag and found a pen and loose paper. Sam joined me, but it was a tiny space, and it took us an awkward minute to arrange our limbs so that they weren’t touching. In the end, I was pressed to the wall, and Sam sat next to me, my ankles against his thigh.

  Our faces, when we set the glass to the wall, were barely a foot apart.

  “This must have been the reason why she ran,” Cora was saying—and I heard it, clear as a bell, amplified by the glass. Sam’s face brightened.

  “It’s a nightmare. You see this happening at stores like Walmart”—Cora said Walmart like it was disgusting—“but certainly not a place like Kensley’s. This is a crisis, Thomas.”

  Kensley’s? he mouthed at me. I shrugged. It was the largest auction house in the country, but I didn’t know what they were referring to.

  “They also could have been running because they’re not who they say they are.” That was Thomas.

  “They knew the code. They have IDs, for Christ’s sake. You can stop being paranoid. You harassed that poor girl.”

  “I don’t believe she’s a poor anything, my darling. With all that’s going on, we cannot trust as easily as we once could.”

  I pointed to my laptop on the floor. He grabbed it, placed it in my lap. I typed Kensley’s in the search bar and waited to see what news would pop up.

  “Besides, we have bigger problems.”

  “Bernard?”

  I got so excited I acted without thinking. Grabbed Sam’s hand, squeezed it. He shifted, and the left side of my body lined up with the right side of his body. My heart was a steady thud in my chest. His tantalizing nearness and the name Bernard were equally intoxicating. More words were said, mumbles, indistinct chatter.

  Sam shook his head at me. What are they saying now?

  Don’t know, I mouthed back.

  But then I was just left holding Sam’s hand. I dropped it, stared at the collar of his shirt instead of his annoyingly attractive face.

  There was a rustle. Silence. Thomas and Cora weren’t speaking. I took the opportunity to peek at my laptop. The first article said Kensley’s Announces Wide-Scale Data Breach; Thousands of Customers’ Information Leaked.

  My little hacker’s heart leapt.

  It was a clue.

  “It was a mistake to ever involve him. It’s blackmail, plain and simple.” Thomas said.

  “Blackmail,” Cora replied. “In this day and age. It used to be we were all civil.”

  Boots. High-heels, stepping away. Thomas and Cora were still talking but had moved to the door—which we heard open and close.

  “They’re gone,” I whispered. I put the glass down.

  “And we learned nothing,” Sam said.

  I held up a finger. “Not necessarily.” I turned my screen around to show my reluctant partner. “I’m going to hack Birdie and Julian.”

  15

  Sam

  Freya sat barefoot and cross-legged next to me, pen in her mouth. Her tidy Birdie bun had grown loose, strands tumbling out. I blinked—saw Freya at 25, in sweatpants and a giant sweatshirt, pestering me to share notes from our counter-terrorism class.

  “Watch me work my magic,” she was saying now, voice muffled by the pen. “This is where computer nerds shine.”

  “How are you going to hack Julian and Birdie?” I asked. She truly had excelled in all things tech at Quantico—a fact she’d yell at my retreating back whenever I passed her on the running track.

  “Well, it’s only a hunch right now. Give me one second, and I’m going to blow your ever-loving mind.”

  “Just like in the fake bomb threat hostage situation,” I said mildly.

  She snorted, which felt like a different kind of victory. I studied her profile as she typed. My rival had the audacity to look achingly beautiful in this quiet moment.

  “Hell yes,” she suddenly cheered, giving herself a high-five. I hid a smile, tried to read over her shoulder.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “You have to admit first that I’m the most incredible person who’s ever lived.”

  “Bold request, Evandale.”

  “You’ve known me since I was eighteen years old. You’ve had enough evidence to support my completely objective claim.”

  A low laugh rumbled in my throat—slipped out before I could stop it. A lightness was breaking through my chest.

  “You’re the most incredible person who’s ever lived.” I paused. “Next to me.”

  “Oh, you’ve got jokes now?”

  “I have a sense of humor.”

  “Spoken like a true robot.” But she was smiling. Dancing in her seat. Whatever was on that screen had made her giddy.

  “Show your robot partner what’s on that screen.”

  She brushed strands of hair from her face. Our knees touched, but she didn’t retreat. “How do you feel about things that are morally…gray?”

  “I’m opposed to them. Obviously.”

  “Give it time. I’ll corrupt you.”

  “You’ve been saying that since Princeton and it’s never happened,” I said. “What was that dance you used to try and get me to go to? The Valentine’s Day one but for super nerds?”

  “Black Hearts Ball,” Freya said, spreading her hands through the air like she could see the words on a marquee. “And it wasn’t for general nerds. It was for bookworms and creative writers who were too dark and too moody to celebrate a holiday as cheerful and commercially manipulative as Valentine’s Day. We read depressing poetry and did shots named after classic books. Like Tequila Mockingbird.”

  “Like you ever did shots,” I said.

  “Like you ever did shots,” she shot back.

  “I’ve…partied.” I was lying through my teeth. “You and I wouldn’t have partied together at Princeton anyway. You always had those writer boyfriends who took up all of your time. And alcohol was banned at Quantico.”

  “You had girlfriends, Byrne,” she said. “Brittany, right? She was class president and captain of the volleyball team…sorority girl too?”

  I shrugged. “She was very ambitious and hard-working. We were a good fit.”

  What we were together was boring—but god help me if Freya ever uncovered that tidbit of information.

  “So who are you dating now?” she asked. “Prove you’re not a robot.”

  My hand actually lifted an inch off the floor, compelled to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. But at the last second, reality halted me.

  What was I doing?

  My rival had always been a whip-smart, funny blonde with full lips and emerald eyes. The hard truth of Freya’s stunning beauty hadn’t changed. I simply seemed to be more susceptible to it.

  “Byrne?”

  “Um…oh, no,” I said. “Not dating. Haven’t for a while. Work.”

  She held my gaze for a second before shaking herself free. “See? Robot. Anyway. I think I caught us a break. Kensley’s just announced a data breach, meaning their customers’ login and financial information has been stolen and made public. It happens all the time, but it’s big news because they work with extremely private and wealthy clientele. As you can imagine, hackers have already created a site on the dark web where they’ve posted the information.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  “Absolutely,” she said firmly. “And I’d never steal Birdie and Julian’s financial information. But I thought it was worth a search for their login details. If people like the Alexanders had their accounts leaked, it’s likely that Birdie and Julian could be in the same boat.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking. “You can get on the dark web?”

  “Believe me, it’s not a place I go often,” she explained. “A year ago, we thought we could track down rare book thieves there. Plenty of criminal activity happens on the dark web, and I hoped there was an even shadier versio
n of Under the Rose that I could find. Get the books back faster if the thieves didn’t have to speak in codes.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t find it. Although I only waded in the shallowest waters of the dark web. It’s honestly too gross to go much deeper.”

  Freya clicked a few buttons on her laptop, showing me a browser called Tor. “This is what I use to access it. There’s a different search engine and everything. Some sites that list leaked data charge you for access, using Bitcoin. But I know of one that allows you to commit criminal acts for free.”

  After a few more seconds of searching, up popped a black box with white lettering. Julian King it said at the top. Beneath that, a login and a password.

  “Why would a Kensley’s customer need a login and password?”

  “They have an interactive site where you can post prelim bids before items are officially for sale. It looks like Julian and Birdie both had accounts on this site. If I take Julian’s username and password,” she paused, “I might be able to log us into his Under the Rose account.”

  “Okay, so that’s also illegal.”

  “I prefer ethical gray area. Besides, I’m just logging in to a website to look at their private messages about letters they might have stolen. PIs are allowed to dig through a suspect’s garbage to find information. You’re telling me if Thomas and Cora had written this information on a piece of paper and thrown it in a trashcan, you’d leave it be?”

  “You’re spying.”

  “I am,” she said.

  I cracked my knuckles, pondering. Of course, I’d nab it from a trashcan. But what she was suggesting was not entirely aboveboard either.

  “What are you waiting for?” I asked.

  “We’re partners.” She bit her lip. “We do it together or not at all.”

  Her expression dared me to deny that we were partners. She still owed me honesty, and I still owed her honesty. Yet maybe this was a first step.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “Do it. And remind me to never let you near my trashcan.”

  “Please. I’ve been reading your emails for years. What do I need a trashcan for?”

  She pulled up the Under the Rose website.

  My back was starting to ache, but I wasn’t about to suggest sitting on that bed. With Freya.

  “The likelihood they use the same password is low though, right?” I said.

  “Hacking pro tip—the majority of people never change their passwords, even though they’re supposed to. I mean, you can barely call that hacking.”

  “Even two rare book thieves operating under an assumed alias?”

  “You’re a trained special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she shot back. “When did you last change your non-work passwords?”

  I thought for a second. “That’s classified.”

  She smirked. “Watch and learn, Agent Byrne.” She waggled her eyebrows at me, voice low and throaty. “Three…two…one…sweet, beautiful victory!”

  She raised her arms to cheer. Then went red in the face. “Oh, wait. Fuck.”

  I grabbed the laptop before she could stop me. Username or password incorrect. Please try again.

  “Hacking pro tip—try having the right login info,” I said.

  “Fuck-a-duck,” Freya swore, chewing on a nail. “We still have my girl Birdie’s info.”

  “I’m going to call Abe. Get his support on busting into their room—”

  She spun her screen around with a triumphant, cheeky grin. “Don’t say I never did nothing for ya.”

  Welcome Birdie Barnes, the screen read. You have three (3) new messages.

  And right there, in the middle of the screen, was a blinking message from one Thomas fucking Alexander.

  This might sound crazy, my dear friend. But are you in Philadelphia right now?

  “Holy shit,” I said. “You hacked Birdie.”

  16

  Freya

  “Nerd girls for the win,” I cheered.

  Sam actually looked impressed with me.

  “This is where I belong,” I added, pointing at the screen.

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe you belong in the field?”

  “This is where I excel. I can do more from here.”

  I’d wanted to be an FBI agent for as long as I could remember, even before my Dana Scully Halloween costume. Yet by the end of that first week of training, I knew I couldn’t hack it. In the end, Sam had won. He’d won it all. Graduated as a special agent with the respect and glowing reputation that came with that.

  I’d flown too close to the sun and still had the singed wings to prove it.

  “Is that why you’re nervous?” His voice was flat—because he wasn’t asking.

  I ignored him and scrolled through the rest of Birdie’s messages on the screen.

  “For what it’s worth, I thought you did extraordinary work out there, Evandale.”

  “I royally screwed things up with the Alexanders. Didn’t think fast enough and almost blew our goddamn cover.” Fuck. I shook my head. “I mean, anyway, back to—”

  “We were presented with a situation we couldn’t have planned for. You think that makes you unqualified?”

  I leveled a sure gaze at my partner. “Your father would say I was a massive fuck-up.”

  His jaw worked. “My father isn’t always right,” he said, each word sounding forced.

  The subject of Sam’s father was the most personally contentious topic we’d fought over. He’d expected perfection from his only son ever since Sam’s mother had passed away suddenly when he was twelve years old. At Quantico, the Deputy Director was always around, spying on his son, measuring him in degrees of excellence. Since Sam was a human who made mistakes, he always, always fell short. He’s just a bully in a suit, I used to tell Sam, which pissed him off to no end.

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I reached forward, touched his hand.

  “Evandale, come on.”

  I shook my head. “Sam, I’m being serious. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve only ever agreed with that man. I meant what I said.”

  The use of his first name had his eyes burning into mine. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the floor, moving beneath my feather-light touch.

  “Not to ruin this Hallmark moment, but we’re going to have a problem with those messages if we don’t react soon.” His voice scraped through the silence.

  “Right,” I whispered. Cleared my throat. Sam pointed to the message blinking from Thomas. Thomas had sent it twenty minutes ago, probably when he first started suspecting we weren’t who we claimed to be. There was an icon that said message not seen.

  I opened the message. Typed out I’m sure you are confused. Yes, Julian and I are here. Yes, we just ate breakfast together. I’m sorry about what you asked me to do. With the jet-lag and the flu medication, I’m not feeling like myself. Combined with the news of Kensley’s, Julian and I were quite shaken up.

  I glanced at Sam.

  “Wait.” He grabbed my wrist, then quickly dropped it. “Um…add a line with that code. Something about trust. They’ve been going on and on about it since we got here.”

  I swallowed my own irritation. I should have thought of that. With our house being empty, we’re glad to be in your company. Trust is paramount. Thank you for your dedication.

  Sam nodded his approval. I hit send.

  And deleted Thomas’s original message.

  “Okay,” I exhaled, “Real Birdie, recovering from her flu, logs in and sees no new messages. But that means I need to stay on top of this constantly. Let me see if I can’t link the notifications to my phone.”

  I worked through their settings until I found what I needed. My laptop pinged.

  Thomas again.

  My deepest apologies for my boorish behavior. You know I’ve been under great stress with this curse.

  “Curse?” Sam and I said in unison. “What the hell is he talking about?”

  Ping. Another message.


  You know where we’re heading this evening. We will escort you.

  “What the hell?” I murmured.

  “But how does this help us find the love letters?” Sam pressed. “Do you think Dahl was their criminal contact?”

  I turned my head and almost collided with his.

  “Sorry.” His eyes lingered on my mouth before he dragged them back to meet mine. “We’re still lost here.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “Let’s start with reading the backlog of Birdie’s messages. And usually this is the time where a partner might offer ideas.”

  He stood and began to pace again. He removed his jacket, rolling up his shirtsleeves in a movement that made his forearms flex. And flex. Loosened his tie to expose an inch of golden skin at the base of his throat. Even slightly mussed, Sam Byrne was the picture of serious. Unflappable. Controlled. It was why I enjoyed teasing the man—poking at the bear was fun. I wanted to see Sam’s wild side, the unbridled side that was merely yearning and urges.

  Between my legs, a seductive pulse began to drum. The sight of the luxurious, four-poster bed wasn’t helping.

  Down girl, damn.

  “What’s the code that Henry sent?” Sam asked. “The one that George used in her love letters? Might contain a clue.”

  I scrolled through the long email that Henry sent me. Cross-checked it against the most recent messages on Under the Rose.

  “This is where you say great idea, partner,” Sam added.

  “What now?” I said, smirking. Poke, poke. “I think I’ve got something.”

  I stood, back aching, and plopped onto the bed. I wiggled my butt, got comfortable. Sam immediately moved to the other side of the room. He leaned against the antique dresser with his arms crossed sternly in front of his chest.

  “According to our in-house librarian, George Sand used basic cryptography to hide secret messages to Alfred within the letters.” I scanned a website with pictures of the letters and digital circles around the code. I started reading out loud, desperate to find a connection.

  “It is possible to note hidden messages in 10 of the 13 letters that George and Alfred exchanged during their tumultuous, but passionate, relationship. They fought often but the ardor of these letters indicates a wild love affair regardless of their arguments.”