Plain Jeopardy. Alison Stone

filing cabinets were neatly labeled with month, day and year ranges. As long as the newspaper clippings were filed correctly according to date, she’d be able to search the articles at the time of her mother’s murder. She touched the handle of the closest cabinet. “I see the files are labeled. I’ll be fine.”

      “Well—” the woman pursed her lips “—don’t refile anything. Place any files you pull out on the desk over there. I’ll refile them at a later date. Because if you don’t put them in the right spot—”

      “No one will ever be able to find the article they’re looking for in the future.”

      The woman leaned back on her heels, apparently satisfied. “When you’re done, let me know. I’ll be at the information desk upstairs.”

      “Thank you.” Grace watched the librarian walk down the narrow aisle, the bookshelves lining one side and the filing cabinets the other, her heels clacking on the cement floor. The librarian disappeared around the corner, and Grace waited until she heard the basement door click shut.

      Finally alone, Grace ran her fingers along the labels on the drawers and stopped on October of that fateful year. Her knees grew weak, and a darkness crowded the periphery of her vision. Was she about to open Pandora’s box?

      Should she or shouldn’t she?

      Drawing in a deep breath, she slid open the first cabinet drawer. She’d come this far. She’d check out a few articles, that’s all. Inside the drawer, manila folders were labeled with exact dates. She slid out the folders from a few days before to a few weeks after her mother’s body was found. She carried the stack to a desk at the far end of the aisle, pulled out a chair and sat. She squinted up at the flickering overhead lights, wishing there was a desk lamp. Not many people must use the basement.

      She opened the folder dated the day after her mother’s body had been found.

      Amish Woman Found Dead.

      Her mother’s life had been reduced to a four-word headline. No name. Simply “Amish Woman.”

      The black words on the yellowed paper swam in her field of vision. Blinking, she traced the letters, as if it provided a connection to her mother.

      As she slowly read the article, she imagined the writer, fingers flying over the keyboard, jazzed to write about something more substantial than cows escaping through broken fences. A quiver rippled through her stomach. Was she any different?

      She shook the thought away and focused on the article. It didn’t provide any significant information that she hadn’t already known. Her mother had gone into town to sell pies. The waitress oozed with pleasantries on how wonderful a person Mrs. Miller had been and then digressed into the usual platitudes: what an awful tragedy, her poor daughters, how had someone dumped her body in the family barn without being seen? It was almost too much to read.

      Breathing slowly through her nose, Grace tried to calm her nerves. She pulled out another article and squinted at the black-and-white photo taken from a distance. Was that her with her father and sisters? The hairs on her arms prickled to life. Her grandma’s house—the site of her sister’s bed & breakfast before it had been updated—stood in the background. She recognized the tree out front and the porch. Emotions she wasn’t ready to explore coursed through her.

      The buzzing and winking of the yellow fluorescent lights threatened to trigger a migraine. She slid the files into her tote bag, convinced the lighting would be better upstairs. She went over to the cabinet to close the drawer when the lights went out.

      Her heart nearly exploded out of her chest.

      Just great.

      Frozen in blackness, Grace called out, “Hello, I’m down here.”

      The only response was the uneven sound of her breath.

      “Hel-lo?” Her voice hitched. She didn’t dare move for fear she’d trip over something in the blackness.

      A muffled shuffling sent terror pulsing through her veins. “Hello? Is someone else down here?” She slid along the cabinets, the handles jabbing her side.

      Hope made her change direction. Her phone was in her bag on the desk. It had a flashlight app. Or she could call for help.

      A rhythmic creaking filled her ears, made louder in the blackness.

      What is that?

      “I’m down here!” she hollered in desperation.

      “I know you’re down here,” an unseen man whispered. Tiny pinpricks of fear blanketed her scalp. She slid closer to the desk, realizing whoever was here had intentionally turned off the lights. And was coming for her.

      Her hand found her tote bag on the desk. She reached inside and found her phone. She feared pulling it out and revealing her location, but she needed help. She swallowed hard. Remain calm. You’ve been in far scarier situations. Her usual response to those who warned her that her investigation was going to get her into trouble didn’t seem to be doing her much good at this exact moment.

      A loud, rhythmic creaking filled her ears. A groan of exertion cut through the blackness. She scrambled under the desk with her phone.

      A loud crash exploded in her ears. A violent whoosh of air sent her hair flying off her face.

      The bookshelves had crashed down around her, leaving her trapped underneath the desk.