“We’re trapped.” The tension in Dr. Peyton Harris’s voice sealed the deal. Darius rose from his crouched position beside a box of old folders in Trinity Falls University’s archive room. The cramped room measured approximately forty-five by thirty-five feet and was a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. He navigated the space between two of the glorified bookcases stuffed with a hodgepodge of dented and dusty boxes of historical documents. Once he’d emerged into the main aisle, he crossed to Peyton. The university’s history professor wrestled with the doorknob as though unwilling to believe the evidence in her hands. “Let me try.” Darius waited for Peyton to make room for him. The top of her head just reached his shoulders. The powdery fragrance of her perfume was a blessed relief from the bitter stink of mold and age that blossomed around them. Peyton stepped aside with obvious reluctance. Darius pressed down on the door’s long, thin copper handle. It didn’t budge, not even a little.
