Chapter 7

JAMESON’S POV

I couldn’t help but notice Elena and Michael leaving the classroom together after the meeting was adjourned.

Most people drifted out in clusters, loud and careless, but they didn’t. They moved with purpose. Too measured. Too aware.

So I watched.

When their path angled toward the library, I stopped.

The library was predictable. What wasn’t predictable was how quickly they disappeared into it, like they already knew where they were going. I lingered instead, forcing myself to look casual, striking up idle conversation with a few teammates. Laughing. Nodding. Pretending my thoughts weren’t elsewhere.

They were.

By the time I stepped into the library, the air had already shifted. I felt it immediately. The quiet there wasn’t normal. It was alert. Like something had just passed through and left its imprint behind.

They were about to leave.

Perfect timing.

“I knew the name sounded familiar,” I said quietly, my voice steadier than I felt. My eyes never left Michael. “I knew it the moment I heard it.”

His expression didn’t change, but I saw it, the subtle tightening, the fractional shift in posture.

“Widders,” I repeated, slower this time.

Saying it out loud was a mistake. I felt it immediately.

Elena stepped forward before Michael could respond. Calm. Measured.

Dangerous in the way composed people always were.

“And where exactly did you hear it?” she asked.

Her eyes searched my face, not for emotion, but for information.

Smart girl.

“Old records,” I said with a shrug, slipping my hands into my pockets.

Casually I added, “Places people don’t usually look.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just incomplete.

Michael finally spoke. “It’s just a name.”

Flat. Controlled. Practiced.

I smiled then, but not for them. For myself.

“Names usually are.”

That was when I felt it shift.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Recognition.

Elena felt it too. I could see it in the way her breathing changed, just slightly.

I turned my attention to her. “Armstrong,” I said lightly. “Now that’s a common name.”

It was true and it was deliberate.

Her reaction confirmed what I already suspected. Armstrong meant nothing here. Widders meant everything.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, adjusting her bag strap, “we’re busy.”

Interesting. No denial. No defensiveness.

I didn’t move right away. Let the silence stretch. Let the weight settle.

“You joined the Historical Research Association,” I said instead. “That’s not something most people do by accident.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Neither is curiosity.”

For a second, I considered pushing.

Asking what she already knew.

Telling her what she didn’t. But it wasn’t time.

So I stepped aside.

“I’ll see you both around,” I said.

And as they walked away, one thought stayed with me, heavier than the name, heavier than the records.

If Elena Armstrong didn’t know what Widders really meant yet… She was about to.

I watched carefully as they left the library.

What caught my attention immediately wasn’t the way people turned to look at them, or the quiet speculation that always followed unfamiliar faces on campus. It was the way Elena moved. Every step was measured, deliberate, as though she were always listening to more than what could be heard. She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate. She moved like someone who expected the world to move against her at any moment.

Then there was her cousin.

Michael positioned himself slightly ahead of her, his body angled just enough to block without making it obvious. Protective. Controlled. Subtle. I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. Students had already begun whispering, drawing their own careless conclusions. But I knew better.

That wasn’t how boyfriends behaved.

That was how soldiers protected someone important.

Widders.

The name echoed in my mind, replaying the moment I had said it aloud. I hadn’t planned to. It had slipped past restraint, pulled loose by instinct before I could stop myself.

I regretted it instantly.

If Elena was even half as sharp as I suspected and everything about her suggested she was then she would have understood what that moment meant. Not just that I recognized the name, but that I knew something she hadn’t expected me to know.

And worse, that I might know things she wasn’t aware of yet.

I walked back to my on-campus apartment.

It was a place I lived alone in. Quiet. Controlled. Exactly the way I liked it. A space where no one lingered long enough to ask questions, and no one stayed long enough to notice patterns.

This was where I kept my notes.

Where I kept the old records.

Most people found it strange that someone like me belonged to the Historical Research Association. To them, I was just another athlete, a wide receiver for the Eagles, loud on the field, familiar in crowds. An extrovert. Easy to read.

They never questioned the version of me that laughed easily or blended effortlessly.

They didn’t see the other side.

The part of me that preferred silence.

That noticed inconsistencies.

That couldn’t let unanswered questions rest.

I’d always been drawn to the history of this school. Not the polished version they handed out during orientation, but the parts buried beneath it. The gaps. The omissions. The stories that stopped abruptly or changed tone without explanation.

Some things didn’t add up.

In fact, history in general didn’t add up. It felt filtered, edited by unseen hands, curated by people who understood exactly what needed to be remembered and what needed to be forgotten.

I dropped my bag and gear onto the couch without bothering to organize them.

Then I moved deeper into the apartment.

My study sat tucked away at the back, door always locked, always closed. Off-limits to guests. Not because I had something to hide, but because some things weren’t meant to be seen casually.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

I walked over to my study table and picked up the notes where the word Widders was circled.

The name wasn’t just a name to me. It was a thread. One I’d been pulling at for far too long. Something that might finally lead me to the answers I’d been searching for.

I had expected a reaction when I said it in front of Elena.

Shock. Confusion. Denial.

Instead, her response told me everything I needed to know.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t hesitate.

She looked back at me with something far more dangerous, not fear, not curiosity, but calculation. Measuring distance. Measuring intent. Measuring me.

Elena Armstrong was observant. Just as observant as I was.

And there was something else about her. A coldness beneath the composure, subtle but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t come from arrogance or confidence, but from pain. The kind you earned.

I found myself thinking back to the first day we collided in the hallway. The irritation in her eyes. The way she didn’t apologize too quickly, didn’t shrink herself to make the moment easier.

Even then, she had stood her ground.

I couldn’t help but find her interesting.

Not because she was kind.

Not because she was soft.

But because she wasn’t.

I told myself my interest was professional. Logical. Tied to the investigation and nothing more.

But as I stared at the circled name on the page, Elena’s expression surfaced again steady, unyielding.

And for reasons I didn’t bother questioning yet, I found myself hoping she wouldn’t stop looking.

I decided to revisit the library a few hours later.

I hadn’t planned to. Something simply wouldn’t let the thought go.

When I arrived, I noticed it almost immediately a detail subtle enough to be missed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it. The shelves were intact. The order appeared unchanged. And yet, something was wrong.

The books had been tampered with.

Not removed.

Not destroyed.

Shifted.

Titles realigned. Gaps closed. References nudged just enough to redirect attention. It was meticulous. Deliberate. The kind of work done by someone who knew exactly what mattered and what didn’t.

The realization settled heavily.

The association wasn’t careless. And it wasn’t protective.

It was selective.

They weren’t stopping people from finding the truth, they were choosing who was allowed to get close.

I didn’t linger any longer.

I made my way back across campus slowly, my thoughts heavy, unraveling what I’d just seen. Someone was watching them. That much was clear now.

And maybe, they were watching me too.

I’d made my interest known. Association, even indirect, had consequences.

I was no longer just an observer on the edges of this.

I needed to keep them close.

Because the moment she joined the association, Elena Armstrong stopped being invisible.

And people rarely stayed invisible once they were noticed.