Chapter 4:

The Collector

Mayor Brindle only entered Room 14 on Sundays.
Not for the quiet. Not for the privacy.
For containment.

The room had no windows. Just four beige walls, the smell of municipal-grade carpet cleaner, and the faint static crackle of a vent that hadn’t worked in years. It wasn’t an office, exactly. It was… a chamber. For reverence. And regret.

He flicked on the fluorescent light. It buzzed overhead, a sickly white hum that made his temples throb. And then—there they were.

The shelves.

Lined edge to edge with Boney LaFleur’s complete works, the glossy covers glowing faintly under the flickering light like stained glass. Temple Blade and the Hollow Crown. The Tethered Labyrinth. Scepter’s Wake. Even the obscure prequel novella she’d tried to scrub from publication—he had it. Signed, no less.

He didn’t sit down right away. He never did. First, he had to… look. Just look.

He moved along the rows slowly, brushing the spines with the back of his hand. His fingers tingled slightly. Part reverence. Part panic. The books weren’t just stories to him. They were a sanctuary. Places where everything made sense. Where people had destinies and enemies and epic confrontations—and none of them involved city council meetings or HOA bylaws or the unraveling of one’s dignity in front of a dog named Capote.

A squeak echoed underfoot. He looked down. The laminate tile had a fresh scuff.

He hadn’t noticed that before.

He clenched his jaw and walked to the small folding chair in the corner. Sat. Took out the paperback of The Hollow Crown—the one with his notes in the margins. Yellow highlighter, purple ink, a few fevered pencil scribbles he no longer remembered writing.

Page 217:
“No secret stays buried forever, only patiently waiting to be found.”

He stared at that line for a long time.

The pink kimono still haunted his dreams. The way it shimmered in the moonlight. The way the sequins had caught on the shovel. The way the dirt made it seem human, like he was burying a body. Not a costume. Not a memory. A truth.

He tried to breathe deeply. Couldn’t. The air in Room 14 always felt just slightly recycled. Like it had passed through too many confessionals.

The text message still burned behind his eyes:
“I know what you buried, and it wasn’t just a time capsule.”

Who sent it? How did they know?

He wiped his hands on his pants. They felt sticky, like his palms were leaking secrets.

The worst part wasn’t the fear of being found out. It was the possibility that Myrtle—sweet, sour, pastel-sweatered Myrtle—wasn’t just Myrtle. That behind the orthopedic shoes and off-brand Tupperware was Boney LaFleur, architect of the Temple Blade saga, literary genius, and keeper of the narrative fate of hundreds of fictional villains.

He closed the book. Pressed it to his chest.

If she were LaFleur… if she knew about the kimono…
Would she write him in? Would he become one of her morally confused side characters? The kind that gets impaled by a decorative umbrella in chapter three?

He didn’t know whether to be terrified or honored.

And that made it worse.

The silence in the room felt sentient now. Listening.

He stood abruptly. Put the book back with a little too much force.

He had to find out if Myrtle knew. He had to confirm it.

But part of him already did. The way she looked at him lately. Her smile, small and tight, like a woman who’d just plotted something delicious. The little glances. The pause when he’d walked by. She was toying with him. Maybe write to him already.

He pressed a hand to the wall, steadying himself.

Outside, the parking lot was empty.
Inside, Room 14 held its breath.

So did the mayor.