Behind The Mask
Zara's POV
Mr. Everhart wasn’t home. Good.
I slipped inside, heart pounding, and headed straight for the fourth floor. His study smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old paper, his signature scent.
“Black book,” I muttered under my breath, scanning the rows of books that lined the mahogany shelves.
My fingers trailed along the spines, tugging, pushing, tapping, searching for a hidden mechanism. I tried everything, sliding shelves, pressing corners, checking for false panels, but nothing. The room remained stubbornly still.