Page 48 of Hannah.
I nod, absorbing the details. There’s a sense of dread in my stomach as I ask, “So, what’s the university’s play on this?”
“I’m not sure yet. We’ve kept it within the department so far.”
Thank God. If Hannahisconnected to all of this, she isn’t in legal trouble. At least not yet.
I look out my office window, contemplating everything. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop,” I say, musing on my next move. I can’t do anything until I know for sure that Hannah is involved because just having a hunch isn’t going to get me anywhere. “May I see the footage from that night?”
“Of course.” The security guard stands, brushing his pants off as he does. “Follow me, and I’ll get it ready for you.”
The security guard leads me through the maze of the department’s back corridors, and my mind is racing the entire time. Somehow, I already know what I’m about to discover, but I want so badly to believe that I’m wrong. We finally reach thesecurity office, the same small, tucked-away room in which we had viewed the other footage. The guard busies himself with the controls, pulling up the footage of Astrid’s exhibition.
I take a seat, the chair creaking as I do. The screen flickers to life, revealing the curated chaos of the Victorian oddities expo. A myriad of artifacts, each with its own peculiar tale, occupies the displays. People are milling around, and I spot Astrid among them, feeling a pang of guilt for not immediately telling her my suspicions. Hell, I don’t think I will tell her even if they are confirmed, which makes me a terrible person, I’m sure. But I’d do almost anything to protect Hannah.
Speaking of Hannah, there she is, flowing gracefully through the crowd. My chest feels tight, thinking about how this must have been one of her first days on campus before she met Astrid and before we got tangled up in this messy triangle.
I watch her move through the exhibit, her eyes alight with curiosity. For a moment, I find peace in just watching her move, beautiful and free, and I think I’ve lost my mind, considering her the suspect. But then, a wave of doubt crashes over me. The coincidences—her appearance at both events and her oddities collection at her home estate…it’s too much for me to ignore.
Even if I really, really want to ignore it.
If I stop here, walk out of this room, and just let it all go, I’ll never have to know if Hannah is guilty. Of course, if she is the thief, someone will discover the truth sooner or later, but I could have a few more days—even weeks—of ignorant bliss.
The footage continues to roll, and the security guard glances at me. I offer a nod, attempting to mask the brewing storm within. “Keep going,” I murmur, my voice carrying a strained calmness.
As the scenes unfold, I study Hannah’s every move. The internal conflict intensifies. The Hannah I know—a bright, inquisitive mind driven by a genuine passion for art and history—doesn’t align with the shadow cast on the screen. Yet, the evidence is there, flickering in washed-out color.
First, she stops in front of the missing object, leaning in as if she’s looking. The movement is subtle and quick, the sign of a practiced thief, and she’s so fast that I don’t even think the security guard sees it. Clenching my jaw, feeling my pulse pounding in my head as my blood rushes through my veins, I keep my cool so he doesn’t notice. I watch the footage more before he starts it back at the beginning. The little treasure she snatched was hidden behind other items, so he can’t tell when it goes missing, and I school my reactions so he doesn’t pick up on the moment. But after I’ve seen it one more time, I’ve had enough. Nausea is rolling around inside of me, and if I don’t get out of here, I’m going to be sick.
Hannah…Christ, why in the hell would she do something like this? Her family is wealthy enough that she could have bought something like that bracelet a hundred times over. She’s waited her entire life to come to Cambridge, and she would go so far as to steal from the college on one of her first days and risk expulsion and arrest.
It hits me then as I bid the security guard farewell and give him a fake lament about not seeing anything new in the footage. Hannah is smart, sophisticated, and driven, which means that whatever is causing her to steal must be beyond her control. She isn’t doing it for the object itself but for the adrenaline rush of it all. It’s…an illness, maybe. Well, at least that’s what I hope it is.
It might not be her fault, at least not entirely. But none of that matters because I’m still going to have to confront her.
On my way to the car, I decide to approach this delicately. I want to protect her and give her an opportunity to explain herself, but I also need answers, and she deserves a chance to address what I’m now sure has been done. All I know is that it has to be in private and that I can’t let her run once the truth isout in the open. This means, I guess, I’m going to have a guest over tonight, for better or for worse.
The apartment feels strangely hollow as I sit on the leather couch, my fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on my phone. The city hums outside my window, oblivious to the turmoil I’m in. Procrastinating this confrontation feels like one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced. Confronting Hannah seems impossible but unavoidable.
Do I have the right to invade her privacy this way? Accusing her of stealing artifacts is one thing, but suggesting that it’s due to a mental illness is something else altogether. My phone sits heavy in my hand, the message thread between us open, waiting for the moment I muster the courage to do what needs to be done. I’ve never been one for confrontation, preferring the safety of academic discourse over the messiness of personal dramatics.
What if I’m wrong? What if there’s a reasonable explanation? Doubts have been filling my mind since I saw her subtly take the bracelet on the security screen.
It’s not just about stolen artifacts; it’s about Hannah and my feelings for her, this never-ending drive to help her if she’ll let me.
I glance at the wineglass on the coffee table and the half-empty pour I’ve been nursing. Is it fair to set this trap? The question lingers, unanswered, as I trace the rim of the glass with my fingertip.
“To hell with it,” I mutter. The soft glow of my phone illuminates the dimly lit room as I compose the message, my thumbs tapping on the screen with measured deliberation.Hey, Hannah. Can you swing by my place tonight? It’s about Amelia’s files. Thanks.
Is this the right approach? Will she suspect anything? Even though I know she’s been stealing from the college, I bizarrely worry that it’s me breaking her trust, not the other way around.
With a sigh, I press send, setting us on a path from which there’s no turning back.
After a few minutes, Hannah agrees to come by. Unable to sit still, I get up and busy myself with mundane tasks while I wait for her. Turning my attention to the modest selection of wine on the shelf, I deliberate over the choice. Should it be red or white? Does it even matter? After polishing off the bottle I had already opened, I settle on a red to share with Hannah.
The corkscrew twists into the bottle with a soft pop. Pouring a generous glass, I glance at the clock. She’ll be here soon. Am I ready for this?
With a resigned sigh, I take a sip of the wine, leaning against the kitchen counter and resigning myself to simply waiting for her with my nerves on edge.
A soft knock shakes me out of my reverie. She’s here. I glance at myself in the hallway mirror, futilely trying to straighten the disheveled threads of my composure. With a steadying breath, I open the door to reveal Hannah, her presence immediately changing the room’s energy.