The dipwad (I had made up my mind to deny him the honor of a name) led me down a long hallway, a lá The Devil Wears Prada, to a white door. It was out of place in the sleek, modern architecture of the rest of the complex, wooden, with chipped white paint and a frosted glass window, obscuring the inside. Oliver threw it open, permitting me to enter with a sarcastic flourish.

I walked into a small office, the walls brick and lined with honey-colored bookshelves, which were bursting with volumes. I heard the door close behind me.

"Oliver! Get your ass back in here!" The speaker was a young woman, maybe twenty-seven or so, reading a file while sitting on her desk, in black booties, jeans, and a white tee shirt. Her hair was gorgeous, a little below shoulder length and shooting out in loose spirals that seemed entirely intentional somehow.

Oliver reentered, tail between his legs, and I smirked.

"Don't be creepy. Don't be creepy. You had one- read, one- job, and you screwed it up. Don't be creepy, I say, and you sidle up to her in the library like a frickin' organ harvester, and then break into her house in the middle of the night. This, Oliver, is why you're never on the welcome wagon!" Then she gave him a hug. "I missed you, though," she said. She shooed him out with her file, then turned to me with an exasperated smile.

"Hey," she said, sliding off her desk and crossing the room to offer me a hand, which I took gingerly. "I'm Renee." 

"Jamie," I said. What further harm could it do at this point, really?

"I expect you have questions," she said, gesturing for me to take a seat as she perches on the desk again.

"I'll stand, if you don't mind."

She nods. "I probably would, too."

"About those questions, I just have one: What the [I'm protecting your virgin eyes] is going on here?"

Renee looks vaguely impressed. "I've never heard that one before."

"It's a talent," I say with a shrug, and she laughs. She may be the most bubbly person I've ever met.

"Okay. So... Christ, this is kind of difficult to explain. Welcome to the Historians Society." She looks at me with anticipation, evidently expecting some sort of reaction.

"That means literally nothing to me."

"You mean your Aunt Fiona never-"

"Fiona was nothing to me, and the feeling was mutual," I say coldly, and the other woman nods.

"Right. Sorry. So, the Historians Society is not, as Ollie probably made it seem, a weird religious  cult that kidnaps and murders teenagers, but a group of like minded people who think it important to keep certain... things... under wraps."

"What kind of things?" 

"Stuff the world just isn't ready for. For instance, you know Amelia Earhart?" I nod. "We know exactly why she crashed."

"And why would that be?"

"Like I said, the world's not ready for that. But it may or may not have something to do with El Dorado."

"I thought they said she crashed over the Bermuda Triangle."

"They also said that El Dorado didn't exist."

"Oh, touche. But, why me, though? Surely there's better candidates. And why now?" 

Renee opened her mouth, then closed it again. "Jamie, I don't know how to say this, but... Your parents were legends here. They were the best of their generation. And the way they died, it- it wasn't an accident. Your mom was my idol." Her hand passed over her face, and when it came away her face was cold, leaving no semblance of the upbeat person she'd been only a moment ago.

"Oh God, Jamie, your parents were murdered."