Beloved

Chapter 16: A Hidden Discovery

"So you're Russian?" Rebecca blurted. Claire and I both glared at her for a moment. "No," Claire answered sarcastically. "I'm from Connecticut." She rose up from her chair then crossed her arms. "That's it, I am going to have a slumber party on the third floor," she stated. "And when I come back, I will be relaxed and comfortable."

With a turn of a heel, she slammed the door behind her. "I can't believe she's your roommate," Claire replied. "Welcome to My So-Called Life," I said without any enthusiasm. "Anyways, spill the beans: you said that you only became an undercover cop in order to get what you deserve."

"Yes," she sighed. "I came to the United States when I was little. My parents are both dead so I lived with my neighbors. When I was nineteen, I graduated Stanford University with flying colors. I married a guy, had a baby son, and started a life in New York. But my life as a happy woman suddenly changed when my husband started seeing someone and now I don't have enough money to support my child."

"I joined some gangs, robbing stores and breaking into houses until a man approached me out of the blue." "What was his name?" I asked. Claire shrugged then looked at me. "I don't know his first name, but his last name started with-"

A yell came from the hallway. Immediately, we opened the door and saw Rebecca being gagged by a man in black clothes. "Rebecca!" I screamed in frustration. The man grabbed her by the hair then scampered away. "Claire," I said. "Call the police, I am going to go after them."

She nodded then went back to my room and came back with my black leather knapsack. "You need this more than I do," Claire responded. She handed me my bag then wished me good luck. Taking the leather snatchel, I trailed after the man in the black clothes until I reached outside.

"Rebecca!" I yelled. I turned my head and found no trace of her, except a small bottle of strawberry lip gloss. It was Rebecca's, I was sure of it. Also, it lead me to the library. Threads of poison ivy almost covered the cracks of the building. I wasn't surprised when a small cockroach crawled on top of the leaf.

Soft brown painted the walls as if it was a canvas, sideways white pillars made up the stairs, and the windows looked like they have never been washed. I noticed a long plastic yellow line that says crime scene wrapped around the library as if it was a mummy.

Ignoring the yellow tape, I opened the door of the library then closed it shut. I reached into my knapsack and pulled out my flashlight. The translucent light filled the room with its former blithe feature: in front of me were tables and comfy chairs covered in dust, books remained wedged inside the shelves, and wooden floors screamed when I took a step forward.

A couple of months ago, I believe, Princeton was building a library like this until something happened. I need to figure out what. A cold wind cut my arms. I gritted as I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a pair of comfortable jeans and a blue woolen sweater.

I checked to make sure no one was watching, kicked off my sneakers, and pulled on my jeans. I slipped my hands through the sleeves of my sweater and laced my shoes back on. Now, I am ready. I clutched the straps of my knapsack then hoisted it over my shoulder.

I walked around the library, checking out the old covers of books and maps until I saw something on the wooden floor. It was dried blood and it left a trail for me to follow. As I followed the trail, I remembered something from a while back. The day that Mr. Monday was arrested, he broke out of prison and ran away.

Nobody knew where he was or if he was dead. Some say that they saw him committing suicide while others thought that he turned into a bible salesman. It took the police months to find the professor until one day they saw his torn coat lying on a pond in the Yellowstone National Park.

Or was it? I walked until I saw a disheveled corpse lying on the floor. The back of his head had a huge wound that was seeping blood. He wore a white plaid shirt, brown pants, and black shoes. His arms spread out on the floor, making it seem like he was flying.

I strapped on my gloves and reluctantly pulled the body's shirt then turned it on its backside. My face drained of color as I saw the face. It was Mr. Monday. Someone or something must have gave him blunt force trauma to the back of the head. The body was pale, obviously it has been laying there for a couple of months.

The soles of his shoes were covered in mud. Mr. Monday must have walked all this way here, but for what? I reached into the pocket and pulled out a cellphone. It was a damaged IPhone 4 with a leather covering. If I checked the date and the time of his texts, it can tell me more about the body.

I scrolled down the apps until I heard a Click behind me. I immediately turned around and saw a Clock sitting on the wall. Rolling my eyes, I went back to the phone until I heard a wheel turning.

I placed the phone back inside Mr. Monday's pocket then followed the sound of the wheel. I walked across the bookshelves' personal space, maneuvered around tables and musty globes, until I reached the two doors that labeled Boys' and Girls' bathroom. Much to my surprise, the noise came from behind the Boys' bathroom. But when I opened the door, the noise stopped.

I then heard whispering underneath the floor. I quietly closed the door behind me then took a step forward on the yellow tiles. All of a sudden, a loud roar came out of the floor. "Worthless idiots!" Someone yelled.