Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Natalie Brianne (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

one was different. Taller. The figure moved towards her, and she found herself frozen, unable to move. The stature of the figure made her believe it was a man. The moonlight from the window highlighted his intense blue eyes. She couldn’t help but stare at them. When she was able to pull her gaze away, she saw the knife, but it was too late. She saw a glint of light as her assailant’s arm quickly moved around her and the knife went for her throat, missed, and hit her heart.

She woke up, trembling from the cold, around five in the morning. Her sheets clung to her skin. Nero slept peacefully at her feet, his little chest rising and falling with his breaths. She looked up at the wall. No mirrors or figures to be seen. Her room was still in pieces, but she was alone. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. It was only a nightmare. But it felt palpable. She mused that it was a conglomeration of the events of the day before. After all, she had nearly been killed. Wait.

She pulled the blanket tight around her shaking shoulders, her throat tightening as memories from the night before flowed into her conscious mind. She stifled a sob, which caused Nero to stir and meow at her. Then she resolved to make herself a cup of tea and try to go back to sleep.

Most of her dishes were shattered on the floor of her kitchen, but she managed to find one undamaged teacup. She heated the water in a pot and found some salvageable tea leaves. Sitting on the floor of her living room with her tea made her feel better about things. She would go to Byron’s as soon as was proper, and then he could come and examine the evidence. After that, they might be able to determine who did it and then they could get the police involved. Perhaps attacking her was their mistake. They must have left some sort of evidence behind. She sipped at her tea and looked around the room.

There were pages upon pages of previous drawings and paintings scattered across the room. All ruined. All her furniture had been smashed to bits. She thought that odd, considering that at Palace Court, only the papers had been disturbed. Nero came yawning and stretching out of her room and curled up next to her. All the pictures had been torn from the walls. She stood up and placed her teacup in the kitchen and then came back to examine things more thoroughly.

She saw that the wallpaper had been shredded. Upon further inspection she found that the paper wasn’t just shredded but cut precisely with a knife. Her heartrate picked up, and she ran into her sitting room. Her books had been strewn from the bookshelf. Some had pages ripped out of them. She knelt and sifted through the mess until she found a familiar tome. A leather cover embossed and lovingly taken care of. The pages and back cover were missing. She clutched the cover to her and searched for any remnants. Eventually she gave up, blinking back tears.

She came back into her room where the bed had been destroyed. The mattress, though comfortable the night before, had over thirty holes stabbed into it and bedding was coming out. On the wall opposite the bed, she found the knife. It was thrust into the wall halfway to the hilt and was holding a paper in place. She hadn’t noticed the paper the night before. Of course, she was a bit preoccupied at the time.

The paper had a message on it, pasted together with clippings from the newspaper:

“We know who you are, Mira Blayse. Leave London immediately. Cease contact with Constantine. You know what we are capable of doing.”

The note wasn’t signed, and a shiver ran up her spine. It was only half past five, but she took her coat and immediately started back to Palace Court, taking a carriage because that felt somehow safer.

On the way, several thoughts crossed her mind. They had tried to kill her. They could have killed her. They would kill her if she continued to help Byron.

Anxiety rushed her senses. Even in the quiet of the morning, the noise around her was almost too much. What would happen if she stopped helping Byron? First, her parents’ case wouldn’t be solved. Not that they had gotten all that far, but still. Secondly, what exactly was it that made her a threat? After all, he had his journal and—that was it.

She reached Palace Court, took out her key, and tiptoed into the house. After placing her coat on the hook, she went into the living room to look through his files. She had to be sure of something before waking Byron up.

She rifled through the papers and notes until she got the B section. The file she was looking for wasn’t there. She checked under M next. No file. Lastly under S. It was gone. The intruders had searched his files and found her address. Her file had been there before and now it was completely missing. She felt another round of tears pricking at her eyes. The rest of the house was quiet. She hated to do this, but she had to wake Byron up. She went up the stairs to the door of his room and knocked.

There was some groaning and a bit of rustling. Some confused mumbling. Then the door opened. His white shirt from yesterday was rumpled and mostly unbuttoned. His trousers had lost their crease and were also wrinkly. He blearily blinked his eyes.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?” He was surprisingly aware, considering he had just woken up.

“I’m Samira Blayse, your secretary. I need you to read your journal right now. Please.”

“My journal? What does that have to do with anything? And how did you get in here?”

“You gave me a key.” She pulled it