Beyond The Veil (A Paranormal Romance)

Chapter 23

It was so quiet one would have been able to hear a needle drop. Neither Emily nor Daniel said anything.

What was she to do? Of course she wanted to save Raphael, but she couldn't do it without the cunning professor's help. However, she also didn't want to be part of that twisted arrangement he had proposed. Just thinking about what that favor he was asking for could be made her stomach churn in disgust. On the other hand, Raphael had sacrificed himself for her; wasn't it now her turn to do the same for him, to do whatever it took to get him out of the hands of the Guardians?

With a very heavy heart, she took a deep breath.

"Yes," she finally said. "Yes, we have a deal."

She could physically feel the sly grin on the other end of the phone. "Terrific. I can't wait to get my reward, sweet girl."

"So," she quickly changed the subject. She didn't want to dwell on this more than uncomfortable matter longer than was necessary. "What's next? How do we help him?"

"So eager," he purred approvingly, before returning to his businesslike tone. "Meet me in about an hour in the café where you and Raphael had breakfast together."

"You know about this?" she asked, astonished about his knowledge. Had Raphael told him about it?

"Honey, I know a lot more than you can imagine. Now, get ready and move your cute little butt down there. I suggest you take the car, we will need it. It's still in the cemetery parking lot. And," he snickered softly. "Get yourself some appropriate clothes."

With that, he hung up.

"Appropriate clothes," Emily snorted, staring at the cell phone in her hand. The last thing that was on her mind was going on a shopping spree, but as wrong as it felt to agree with him, she had to admit that Professor Morris had a point. With her sloppy attire she would only draw unwanted attention to herself, and inevitably to him, too. There was just one little problem; she didn't have any money, not even one cent.

As if he had read her mind, a text from Daniel popped up on the screen of the smartphone.

Small key. Look for number 77. Attic. Don't be late, I'm waiting.

Great. She just loved his detailed instructions. What small key? And what number 77? What in the world was that man talking about?

Furrowing her brows, she analyzed the message once more.

Attic.

Was there an attic in this building? There was only one way to find out. Heading to the door, she patted her chest and was pleased to find the keyring still under her shirt. Her eyes grew wide as it finally dawned on her. Key! Of course!

Swiftly, she pulled the lanyard over her head and examined it. Black car key, apartment key, and a small silver key with a rectangular bow.

"That must be it." Her fingers folded tightly around it as the apartment door fell into the lock behind her.

In the far corner of the hallway she spotted a narrow staircase. Its wooden steps creaked dangerously under her weight as she ascended to the top floor.

It wasn't long until she reached an old large metal door that marked the end of the stairway. It obviously had been painted several times, since she could see the different layers of paint that had chipped off over time, leaving ugly, rusty spots splattered across the door's dirty white surface.

Emily pushed the handle down and was surprised that the door opened without a squeak. A dark corridor stretched out in front of her, to the left and right were moldy pinewood gates, guarding whatever was stored in those shabby storage spaces. Bold red numbers had been spray-painted amateurishly above the entrances.

Walking down the dusty hallway, she read the numbers to herself, until she found number 77.

"Let's see then," she encouraged herself as she slid the key into the lock. As soon as she turned it, the door sprang open.

It took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the darkness. When she finally could make out the interior of the crammed space, she realized she was standing right in front of a beautifully crafted antique wardrobe.

Impulsively, she opened it and gasped. Attached to the inside of the door, there was an old photograph, showing a young blonde woman. She smiled into the camera, her eyes seemed to shimmer with tears. She was proudly holding her hand up, showing off a rather expensive looking diamond ring. Carefully, as not to tear the picture, Emily loosened the tape that kept it in place and took it to examine it closer. The woman's light blonde hair framed a very pretty face. Even though she was crying, her bright green eyes seemed to reflect the happy smile of her lips.

Who was she? Emily flipped the picture over, hoping that someone had maybe written her name on the back.

You have made me the happiest person in the world when you said yes, Jenna.

I love you

To eternity and beyond,

Raphael

For some reason, those words, written with so much sincerity and love, caused a sharp sting in Emily's chest. Especially the last two lines saddened her deeply. Looking at Jenna and seeing how excited she had been for the future - a future that would never be - was almost unbearable. Only one second. One second was all it took to change, to destroy two lives.

Emily suddenly felt ill. And extremely guilty. It wasn't her place to snoop around in the couple's most intimate memories, even if the memory just consisted of a picture. Moreover, she couldn't deny some slight jealousy. She wanted to be loved like that; the same way Raphael had loved Jenna. She longed to hear someone speak those words to her; those incredibly touching words only lovers shared.

Emily shook her head viciously at her stupid thoughts. How could she be jealous of the woman Raphael had adored for the entirety of his existence? Ridiculous. And so inappropriate.

Quickly, she returned the photo to its original place and began to investigate the contents of the wardrobe.

Clothes were neatly stacked on top of each other; dresses, skirts, sweaters, t-shirts, and pants.

So that was what Professor Morris meant. He wanted her to dress in Jenna's clothes. What a sick, truly disturbed man. She couldn't possibly wear anything that had belonged to Raphael's dead fiance. This was wrong on so many levels.

But time was ticking, and realizing that she had no other alternative, she reluctantly chose a pair of blue jeans and a pale pink sweater.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, looking apologetically at the woman's photo. "I wish I didn't have to do this."

Hastily, she slammed the wardrobe shut and ran back downstairs.