The Hunt For The Truth

The state archives in Olympia were quiet, the kind of silence that hummed beneath the fluorescent lights and stretched long through the rows of neatly labelled files. Celeste and Adrian stepped through the heavy glass doors, the weight of their mission pressing down on them.

The building was old, a relic of Washington's bureaucratic past, with its high ceilings and walls lined with portraits of stern-faced officials. Celeste adjusted her bag over her shoulder, scanning the lobby.

Adrian leaned in, his voice low. "We do this fast. In and out."

Celeste nodded, but a knot had formed in her stomach the moment they stepped inside. The feeling of being watched had followed her all the way from Port Bellingham.

As they approached the records desk, an older woman in thick glasses glanced up from her work.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone polite but distracted.

Celeste stepped forward. "We're looking for court records from 1951—specifically, a sealed legal dispute involving Nathaniel Wren and Victor Langford."

The woman frowned slightly. "That's a restricted case."

Celeste expected that, but she had come prepared. She pulled out a carefully worded letter from the Port Bellingham Historical Society, requesting access for research purposes. A half-truth at best.

The clerk took the letter, adjusted her glasses, and read through it. Then she sighed. "Wait here."

Celeste's heart pounded as the woman disappeared through a door labelled Staff Only.

Adrian shifted beside her. "If this works, I owe you a drink."

She shot him a look. "I'll take a whole bottle of wine."

He smirked, but his posture remained tense. The sense of urgency, of being on borrowed time, weighed on them both.

A few agonizing minutes later, the woman returned, looking even more displeased than before.

"You're lucky," she muttered, sliding a manila folder across the counter. "The case was partially unsealed five years ago after a historical inquiry, but some details are still redacted. You can look, but you can't remove anything from this building."

Celeste's fingers trembled as she opened the file. Adrian leaned in beside her, his warmth grounding her.

The first few pages were typical legal jargon—dates, parties involved, case numbers. But as she flipped through, her breath hitched.

A statement from Victor Langford.

I have reason to believe the fire at the Fairmont Theater on December 9, 1948, was not accidental. I was made aware of certain financial transactions between Nathaniel Wren and multiple city officials, including Judge Harold Wren and Attorney Richard Vaughn, suggesting a deliberate act of destruction.

Celeste's blood ran cold.

This was it. Proof that Vaughn had been covering for Wren since the beginning.

Adrian exhaled sharply. "We need to copy this."

Celeste nodded, reaching for her phone to snap photos. But before she could, a shadow loomed over them.

"Excuse me."

A man in a dark suit stood nearby, his expression unreadable.

"Can I help you?" Adrian asked, his tone casual—but his posture stiffened.

The man's gaze flicked to the file in Celeste's hands. "You're looking at something very sensitive."

Celeste's grip tightened. "And who are you?"

The man gave a thin-lipped smile. "A concerned citizen."

Adrian took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Celeste. "That so? Because I'm not sure I like the way you're looking at us."

The man didn't blink. "I suggest you leave this alone."

Celeste's pulse thundered in her ears. Whoever this was, he knew what they had found.

Adrian smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it. "We'll think about it."

The man's eyes lingered on them for a moment longer, then he turned and walked away, disappearing down the rows of archives.

Celeste forced herself to breathe. "Adrian…"

"I saw him in the parking lot when we arrived." Adrian's voice was low. "He followed us inside."

A chill ran down her spine. "Then we need to move. Now."

Adrian nodded. "Take the photos. Quickly."

Celeste lifted her phone with shaking hands and snapped images of every important document in the file. She had just finished when the woman at the front desk glanced toward them, her face puzzled.

"Did your friend leave?"

Celeste's stomach dropped.

"What?" Adrian asked.

"The man who was with you," the clerk said. "The one who came in a few minutes after you. He left in a hurry."

Celeste's blood turned to ice.

"He was never with us," Adrian said tightly.

The woman paled.

Celeste grabbed his arm. "We need to go."

They returned the file and hurried toward the exit, tension crackling between them. As soon as they stepped outside, Celeste scanned the parking lot.

No sign of the man.

But she knew better than to believe he was really gone.

Adrian unlocked the car, and they climbed inside. He gripped the wheel but didn't start the engine immediately.

"This is getting worse."

Celeste exhaled. "I know."

They sat in tense silence.

Then Adrian's eyes flicked to the key still clenched in her hand.

"We still have one more stop."

The Olympia State Bank was a grand old building with marble columns and a vaulted ceiling. Celeste's stomach churned as they stepped inside.

If James Holloway had hidden something here, it could be the final piece of the puzzle.

She approached the front desk and presented the key. "I need to access a safe deposit box."

The teller checked the number and nodded. "Right this way."

Adrian stayed close behind her as they were led into a secure room lined with metal boxes. The teller directed them to box 317 and left them alone.

Celeste's hands were clammy as she inserted the key and turned it.

The lock clicked open.

Inside was a single folder.

Celeste pulled it out and set it on the table, her breath catching as she flipped it open.

There were photographs—grainy, black-and-white images of men in suits standing outside the Fairmont Theater. One of them was Nathaniel Wren. Another was a younger Richard Vaughn.

And they weren't alone.

A woman stood with them.

Evelyn Ross.

Celeste's heart pounded.

Adrian leaned in. "What the hell…"

Beneath the photos was a letter, written in James Holloway's familiar scrawl.

I finally have the proof.

The fire wasn't an accident. Evelyn knew something she wasn't supposed to. She tried to fight back. And they silenced her.

They killed her.

And they will kill again to keep it buried.

Celeste's breath caught.

A terrible realization settled in.

The fire hadn't just been about insurance fraud or business disputes.

It had been murder.

Adrian clenched his jaw. "We need to get this out of here."

Celeste nodded, carefully tucking the folder into her bag. "Let's go."

But as they turned toward the door, her stomach dropped.

The man in the dark suit was waiting for them.

And this time, he wasn't alone.

Two other men stood with him, their expressions blank but their intent clear.

Celeste's blood ran cold.

Adrian moved fast, stepping protectively in front of her.

The suited man smiled. "I warned you."

Adrian's voice was calm, but Celeste could hear the edge in it. "So what now? You kill us in the middle of a bank?"

The man's smile widened. "No. But I strongly suggest you hand over what you found."

Celeste's heart pounded.

Then—

A loud voice echoed down the hall. "Sir? Can I help you?"

A bank security guard had appeared, watching them closely.

The man in the suit didn't move. But Celeste saw it—the flicker of frustration in his eyes.

Adrian seized the moment.

He grabbed Celeste's hand. "Run."

They bolted past the suited man, past the stunned security guard, and out into the lobby.

Celeste's breath came fast as they sprinted toward the car.

Adrian threw open the door. "Get in!"

She barely had time to slam it shut before he peeled out of the parking lot.

Celeste twisted to look behind them.

The suited man stood at the bank entrance, watching them go.

Adrian's knuckles were white on the wheel. "We just put targets on our backs."

Celeste swallowed hard, holding the folder close.

"We have what we need."

Adrian's jaw tightened. "Then we'd better find a way to use it—before they find a way to bury us, too."