Carla had tried to sleep, but no matter how hard she tried sleep seemed to allude her. Why had she been so hard on Julie? She had only told her the truth, but all at once, and when she was so tired, so beaten up after seeing her cousin nearly fall apart in fear that Paul was going to die?
She shook her head, chasing the thoughts away. It didn’t matter. Julie knew everything... well, almost everything, and Carla could clean up the mess later.
In her half dazed state Carla found herself in the basement of the library, fishing through old newspapers, looking for anything she could on the Black Rose’s. So far she had found nothing.
Still, something in her gut told her to keep looking. She felt close, and Carla had learned at a young age that it paid to listen to her gut.
She could hear Harvey walking around upstairs, and the footsteps gave her a sense of comfort. She was stuck in a very dark, very depressing basement all alone, and with things being as odd as they were it felt good to have someone close by.
As flipped through the old volumes a picture caught her eye. It was an older woman, very stern looking, her greying hair pulled back into a bun, and her clothing very proper, conservative. She sat, hands folded on her lap.
What caught Carla’s attention was what was clasped in those folded hands. It appeared to be a long stem black rose. It was hard to tell in a black and white photograph, but the headline of the article said everything Carla wanted to know.
LOCAL WOMAN FOUNDS THE BLACK ROSE SOCIETY FOR WIDOWS AND WIDOWERS.
That woman’s name was Moira Clawson, and at the time of the picture she was sixty seven years old. Apparently her husband had died and, in her grief, she founded the Black Rose Society to help people in similar situations deal with the grief.
Carla couldn’t believe that any woman who looked like that could help anyone with grief. She looked like the type of woman who would hit your knuckles with a ruler if you looked at her funny.
Carla checked the date on the article.
November 13th, 1928.
"Well Moira Clawson, you may be dead, but you’re the best lead I have right now." Carla sighed and dragged the large book over to the copy machine.
She was pretty sure that if she moved it again her back would give out.
She took her copy, folded it, and slipped it into her back pocket. Julie would want to read this. It could be Carla’s little peace offering.
She glanced back at the table she had been sitting at and sighed. Stacks upon stacks of giant volumes of collected newspapers made her back ache just looking at them.
She walked over to the small intercom located next to the stairs that led up to the main floor of the library.
"Harvey, could you come down here and give me a hand?" She let the button go and waited. No response. "Harvey?"
A small rustling sound on the far end of the basement made her pause.
She held back the urge to ask if anyone was there.
Suddenly, in a flash, a giant, flowing black shape rushed her, knocking her back against the cement wall. Carla heard the thud of her head making contact with the hard surface, and then there was only darkness.
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