Page 36 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

He presses firmly, and we hear a soft click. The bookcase swings inward with well-oiled silence, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.

My breath catches in my throat. "Holy shit."

The secret room is small but organized with an arsenal that makes my stomach clench. Silver-tipped arrows gleam in their quivers along one wall. Beside them hang daggers with handles carved from rowan wood, their blades catching what little light filters in. Crossbows of varying sizes occupy an entire shelf, while a glass-fronted cabinet houses at least a dozen vials of clear liquid—almost certainly the sedative she's been using. Against the far wall stands a workbench cluttered with weapon maintenance tools and what I recognize with growing horror as surgical instruments, their polished surfaces reflecting our shocked faces.

I swallow hard, trying to process what we're seeing. "All this time, she was hiding in plain sight. Serving on community boards, organizing story time for the kids, helping with research…"

"All while plotting to cut our hearts out," Jasper finishes grimly. “It’s a shame.”

I move to a small desk in the corner, where a cheap composition notebook sits beside a stack of papers. Opening it, I find pages of notes, including details about supernatural beings in Pennington Falls, their habits, their weaknesses. My own name appears on page seventeen, along with Jasper's, complete with our home address and a notation about the farm's security systems.

My hands shake as I flip through the pages. "She's been planning this for years."

Beside the notebook, I discover several handwritten receipts, each bearing the same signature. I pick one up, blood running cold as I read aloud, "Payment received for specimen W-003. $75,000. T. Hartman."

"She's been selling the hearts," I whisper, the horror of it settling over me like a shroud. "To someone named T. Hartman."

Whiskers jumps onto the desk, his paws skittering across the papers. "Look!" He points to a notepad, where a name is circled repeatedly in red ink. "Millie Rogers. Didn’t we see her leaving the sheriff’s office the day Cassie “left for Boston”?”

“Yes,” I whisper, “she was with the sheriff, practically running from the building.” A constellation of dots begins sparking together, strobe-flash bright.

"I think Millie is the next target," Jasper says, his voice hollow.

I flip through more pages, finding a detailed schedule of Millie's routine, including where she works, shops, where she gets coffee every morning before work, what time she arrives and departs. Millie’s entire existence reduced to a column of predictable slots, her schedule annotated in Cassie’s tidy, librarian handwriting.

"We need to warn her," I say urgently, taking photos of the notebook and receipts.

Jasper’s hand closes gently but unyieldingly on my wrist. “If we scare Cassie off now, we might never catch her.”

I nod.

We slip out of the secret room, carefully closing the bookcase behind us. I grab the dart and tuck it back into my pocket for evidence. My heart pounds against my ribs as we make our way through the library, trying to appear normal, like we didn’t just discover the town's most elaborate murder cave behind a bookshelf.

As we pass the circulation desk, Greta waves cheerfully. "Find everything you needed?"

I force a smile that feels brittle on my face. "More than we expected, actually."

Outside, the autumn air hits my lungs like a shock after the library's stillness. Jasper's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the car with an urgency that matches the situation but feels oddly like his old, protective self.

Jasper's jaw tightens as he unlocks the car. "We need to hurry. I fear Millie’s on borrowed time."

I slide into the passenger seat, nodding. It's the first time since I stitched him back to life that we're completely aligned, no barbs, no hesitation.

Cassie is preparing her next hunt, sharpening her tools so to speak, while Millie goes about her day, blissfully unaware of the crosshairs settling over her heart.