Julian Morrow The Secret History Novels & Stories

For a fleeting second, the predatory amusement on Richard’s face flickered and died, replaced by a sharp, calculating mask. "Is she in there, Father?" Julian asked. I couldn't see him, but I could imagine that thin, knowing smile. His eyes flicked past Richard’s shoulder, scanning the dim interior of the library. They lingered just a second too long on the faint, tell-tale silhouette of my dress hidden behind the desk. "You’ve always had a taste for the forbidden. But keep in mind—walls have ears in this house. And some secrets are much more valuable when they are kept by two people instead of one."

It was the burner phone Chloe had given me. “I found this in the pantry, hidden behind the flour," Julian said. He then held up the piece of paper. It was a printout of my secret bank account. "$30k. It’s a small amount for a woman like you with such big dreams." "Julian, I..." I started, but the words died in my throat. His face was a mask of cold fury. "And then there’s this," he said, reaching onto the desk. He picked up a folder I had hidden behind the books in the library. He opened it to show the architectural drawings of the cottage by the sea. "A secret life. A secret house. A secret exit."

Eight weeks later, He raised his head up and stared at the direction of where the phone was ringing, it been ringing for quite a while. “Ajoke... your phone is ringing.” He said to her and she came into the room and moved closer, to the phone while he returned his attention to the newspaper in his hands. “Hello...” She said and walked back into the room, he sighed deeply, she seem so secretive these days and it baffled him. She returned to the living room some minutes later and sat down beside him. “My love ...” She said and touched his head slowly, he put the newspaper beside him and looked at her.

“And I’m sure that the divorce that will happen in five years will be without incident,” “Don’t be so sure, when a woman becomes accustomed to a certain lifestyle it’s not easy for her to adjust to less. Think about Anna Sorkin. I think that it’s rather ironic that she shares the same name as the biggest con artist in modern history,” Josh tells Henry. Henry laughs at the thought of the girl that eats too much wasabi and embarrasses herself in public being able to pull off as big of a heist as Anna Sorkin. An Anna Sorkin would have researched everything about eating sushi and passed the night flawlessly and not eaten ice cream from the restaurant kitchen and spilled it over a Valentino dress

I woke her up, noticing strange marks on her exposed skin—marks that were identical to the ones on Rylee. Nydia seemed to realize what I had noticed and quickly tried to cover herself up. I pretended not to see anything, instead telling her about the class reunion. Her expression shifted, visibly anxious. I didn't say anything else. I walked into the study and checked my phone. As expected, after I had left, a man wearing a mask entered the room. He moved furtively, carrying a toolbox. Nydia obediently approached him, and what followed was disturbing; the sounds of their interaction were not something I could bear to hear.

Ian took a file bag from his assistant and dumped its contents onto the table. Papers and photographs were scattered everywhere. "You've hurt Angela again and again for this woman," he said coldly. "Now look carefully at who she really is." He jabbed at the evidence. "She tells people she came back to Sunnydale after finishing her studies, blaming her ruined reputation on bad luck with men. But the truth? She's nothing but a shallow, greedy woman! She got involved with a married man for money, drove his wife in her fifties to her death, and only then came crawling back here in disgrace.

Cherry’s POV: “Take me to her? Do you know what you are saying?How did you get to know me?”I said while he stood surprised. “Let me introduce myself to you. My name is Richard Kingsley. I have been working for your mother as her secretary for the past twenty years now. She told me to come and get you after looking for you.” “We have been looking for you for so long . Your mother is the CEO of the L’Avogue group of companies. I don’t know if you heard of such.”He continued.

We didn't bother with the lights; I just willed the blue glow of my own energy to flare, illuminating rows and rows of rotting, leather-bound tomes. We spent hours maybe days tearing the place apart. I felt like I was losing my mind, flipping through pages of dead history, reading about wars that had happened before the first star was lit. We were looking for anything—a name, a weakness, a reason why these things were hiding on the other side of a door in my bedroom. "Here," Julian finally shouted, his voice cracking from lack of use. He pulled a massive, iron-bound volume from a bottom shelf. The cover was covered in a thick layer of soot, and the pages were stiff with age.

The particular quality of his thinking is silence. "Richard," he said. We both looked at him. "Farrow's been researching this for six weeks. She started with me, which is what Trevor fed her. But Farrow is good." He looked at Marcus. "You said it yourself. She doesn't publish on one source. She pulls threads." He paused. "If she pulled the right threads she found Richard. The board history. The harassment complaint." "Your mother," Marcus said, looking at me. "She wouldn't have the NDA details. Those are sealed." I thought about it fast. "But she'd find the employment record. The abrupt departure. The pattern if there were other complaints." I looked at Damien. "Were there other complaints?"

She stepped inside, the scent of old books and mildew wrapping around her like bad memories. The place was as quiet as a wault, with rows of bookshelves stretching into the distance. A few scattered tables sat under flickering fluorescent lights, and the dust in the air felt thick enough to choke on. Leila found the history section and grabbed the book Tom had mentioned. Eduard Yellen’s "masterpiece" on German aristocracy and their ties to ancient power. It was thick, the kind of book that could double as a doorstop or a weapon, depending on circumstances. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the boring content, but she wasn’t really reading. Her mind was elsewhere, piecing toget