What You Don't Know (Sequel to "Secret Love")(Hunter Hayes/James Marsden)

What is Locked is Secret

Luckily, it seems that I can get my works back! I called my dad and he says he can fix it when I see him in three weeks. It still means I have to rewrite parts of the end to keep updating, but that's okay. We'll just call the first one a rough draft or something. xD

Anyway, thank you guys for your encouragement! I am so grateful for you! <3

Also, we're coming down to the end, and I'd love to know what you think is going to happen! So leave me a comment, and don't forget to vote! It only takes a second! ;) God Bless and Happy Reading!

Bethany took a deep breath, but it did nothing to slow her heart rate. She slid the key into Trenton's apartment door and pushed it open with trepidation. She half expected it to creak, or that the rooms inside would be dark and unfriendly, like the abandoned mansions in old horror movies. Of course, it was not anything like her imagination convinced her it would be: it was just Trenton's apartment, and it looked exactly as it had all the other times she had spent time within these walls.

She moved forward slowly, twiddling the keys in her hands. The door shut behind her and she called out, as thought expecting someone to answer.

"Hello? Is anybody here?"

It was a reflex, and one that she knew was silly. Still, it was good to be sure, and she peeked her head around every unlocked corner to be positive she was alone. Assured that she was, she opened the door to Trenton's bedroom.

The whole house seemed to shudder when she stepped from the wood of the hallway onto the carpet. Images of the last time she was here pinged against the walls of her brain: the false skin growing and falling away, the gold glasses and signature comb-over being put aside, and, finally, Trenton standing before her, disguise removed for the first time.

It took her only a moment to snap out of her reverie. She turned to the side and fumbled through the first drawer she could find. There was nothing of consequence: just more cosmetics and false flesh pieces. She moved on, but found nothing significant in any of the drawers of Trenton's dresser, vanity, or armoire. She moved on to his night stand, but the little wooden door was locked shut. She went through several tiny keys on the ring in her hand before it finally slid open to reveal its contents.

There was a long, thin leather-bound book within, and Bethany grabbed it quickly. It was a date book, though it seemed that Trenton had crammed several years worth of calendars into the same book. Peering at it closer, she saw two letters penciled into a day in March three years ago.

"TM..." she whispered, puzzling over the letters for only a moment before she moved on. Several pages later, there was another set of initials: "ML." Then "BM", "LB", "BC": no discernible pattern, and no other marks to give clue to the letters' meaning.

She decided to keep the book with her, but bumped the drawer closed with her hip before she left the room. The next place she visited was the room down the hall, just across from the master bathroom. The keys rattled in her free hand, and she took a deep breath to steady herself as she searched for the right one.

Finally the door clicked open, and Bethany steeled herself for whatever horrible scene was behind it. The beige wood swung back, and landed against the bare wall with a thud! Bethany winced, but forced herself to look around the room. It was just a guest room: one bare mattress on a simple, cherry-wood bed frame that was conspicuously well-cleaned. There was a mirror hanging from the wall directly opposite the door, and Bethany could see herself in it as she scanned the sparsely-decorated room.

At least Trenton is consistent in his style, she thought, taking it the plain, lonely nightstand and the lint-free countertop of the one small dresser across from the bed. There was another door in the back of the room, which Bethany assumed led to a guest bathroom, but she did not bother to investigate it yet. Instead, she checked the drawers of the small furniture pieces - they were empty, as she had anticipated - and left the room quickly to search the last one in Trenton's short hallway.

As she once again shuffled through the bland, all-gold keys, she puzzled over the guest room. Why had Trenton kept it locked if there was nothing in there to hide? She recalled that Trenton had mentioned his wife had died recently, and she supposed that room could have been hers, though it was unlikely. Trenton had professed a great love for his wife, and if his tale was to be believed, would he not have slept in the same bed with her? Not only that, but why keep a room closed up but still go in to clean it? It was obvious that the room was not in use, but there was not a speck of dust, dirt, or grime anywhere to be seen. Perhaps, like every other aspect of Trenton's life, he simply hated the thought of disorder or filth, but it still seemed odd that he would bother with such an unobtrusive part of the house.

Behind this door was a small closet in which Trenton had placed two filing cabinets. Eagerly, she peered into the top drawer of one, only to find it jammed with perfectly-placed files, none of which were labeled or categorized in any obvious way.

Curiously, she thumbed through them, but found nothing remarkable. It appeared that Trenton had kept a record of every intern he had taught in this cabinet, and after a short perusal of her own file, she was slightly disturbed by how thorough the accounts were, but wrote it off as part of Trenton's personality.

The next cabinet had but one marked tab, which simply said, "Clientele" in simple black script. The first paper in the row was a detailed spreadsheet of the tickets sold and seats filled in the last production Trenton had been involved in. That was paper clipped to a list of the actors who had been hired for the show, their attendance and pay, and whether or not Trenton would ever consider working with them again.

She almost missed it. It was close to the bottom of the page, which was categorized alphabetically. "Mosby, Dean" it read. He had several absences, a higher than average pay, and under the personal notes, Trenton had simply written "N/A."

This was the second time Bethany had seen Dean Mosby's name connected to Trent's. She thought back to Jeremy Willaker's words when she had asked if he thought Trenton had killed Mosby.

"Do I think it was McDermott? Yes, I do. Can I prove it? No. That's why you're here."

Jeremy had neglected to mention that Trenton was working with Dean at the time of his murder, but here was the proof of it anyhow. She took out her phone and snapped a picture, making sure to get a clear shot of the name and the title of the play. Then she shoved the papers back into the file and moved on to the next.

Several records of the same kind followed, including an account of West Side Story, and it wasn't until about a third of the way into the row that the contents changed. Nothing about the next set of papers made any sense to Bethany. She pulled it out to take a closer look, but the words on the page lacked meaning to her eyes.

It read:

Initial Contact - April 2, 2015

Use of voice machine, large quantities of static, untraceable number, little known

Associate - Markob Jakobie

Large, annoyingly cheerful, bright shirts, dark sunglasses, Lebanese descent, no criminal record, no knowledge about employer

Initial Meeting - April 6, 2015

Limit - None imposed

Cash - $2,500 received April 6, 2015

Specs - Complete disappearance, no trace of murder

Complications - Past involvement, personal vendetta

Secondary Communication - None

Secondary Meeting - August 18, 2015

- No demands made

Tertiary Meeting - November 29, 2015

- Ten day limit

Bethany shook her head, fingering the mysterious words. The dates were from this year, but none stuck out to her as important. She parted remaining papers randomly, only to find that the rest of them were similar to this one, only with different dates and nuances in the information and descriptions given. Unlike the other files she had seen both in Trenton's office and in the other parts of this closet, these were all hand written in the half-connected type that was specific to Trenton. Bethany took a picture of this as well, knowing that it could easily be traced back to the man who wrote it.