After declining Rachel's invitation to visit the aquarium, Amber had initially returned to her apartment in order to figure out her next move. But she didn't think about it for too long, because the answer was obvious.

The librarian had suggested she visit the New England Bureau of Records. There, if the librarian was to be believed, Amber would find the information she sought.

Well, I guess when in doubt, you start at the top.

Amber didn't waste much time calling an Uber. For whatever reason, however, the app took its sweet time locating a driver willing to take Amber where she wanted to go. And the young woman couldn't fathom why there would be such a delay.

The minutes ticked by, and Amber could barely keep herself from bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet. When she was finally connected with an Uber driver, Amber made her way to the pick-up point.

Boston's North End had once been home to a largely residential community, the city's "Little Italy" if there ever was one. However, that was no longer the case. Yes, there were still numerous Italian restaurants along the main thoroughfare, but it was more a tourist destination than anything else. Perhaps that's why the Uber had taken so long to reach her - there was a lot of demand in this location.

When Amber's ride was three minutes away, her phone buzzed. For a moment, she wondered if the driver had to cancel for some reason, and was just about ready to swear under her breath when she saw the text ID.

Chris Courtland.

Amber swore under her breath. That man just wouldn't let her be, would he?

When the Uber finally arrived, Amber climbed in and then consulted her phone again. She wasn't one to make small talk with Uber drivers - why did it matter when you'd likely never see them again?

Chris had texted her the following: Did you see what just happened?

Of course, since the text had been sent three minutes ago, "just" was a bit of a stretch, but Amber nonetheless responded as follows: What was it?

Ten seconds later, Chris replied thusly: Check Google. It's all over the Internet - a breaking news alert.

Amber exited the messaging app and opened Safari. (And yes, she still used Safari on her mobile device.) She searched "breaking news Boston", knowing that what made the news in Beantown wasn't necessarily a headline elsewhere.

Right away, she was bombarded with results from NBC, CNN, "X, the platform formerly known as Twitter", and more sources. All of them seemed to have gathered the same message: Structural failure at New England Aquarium; fatalities, injuries feared.

"Oh my God" Amber mouthed, which caused the Uber driver to tilt his head back at his passenger. Thankfully, they were presently stopped at a red light.

"Miss, you okay?" the driver asked Amber.

The young woman nodded. "I'm fine. It's just the news that came up…apparently something broke inside the aquarium!"

"Well, disasters happen sometimes," the driver replied. "At the end of the day, it's not going to stop me from living my life."

Amber did not respond to that. Instead, she responded to Chris' next text, which read: The news is about the aquarium - apparently a Pokémon called Gyarados ended up in the central tank, and the thing exploded. That's 200K gallons of water rushing out, flooding the place, not to mention all that glass and synthetic coral.

The young woman texted back: A POKÉMON was in there? How did that happen?

Beats me, Chris responded. But what we know now is less than we'll know tomorrow. That's how the news works.

That wasn't exactly reassuring, especially when Amber realized something else.

My friend invited me to go to the aquarium with her today!, she responded. Do you think Rachel might be there now?

The speech bubble with ellipses remained visible for quite some time, indicating that Chris' reply was likely to be long and wordy. But even Amber wasn't prepared for the eventual message.

How should I know? You know your best friend better than I do.

And yet you're still trying to blackmail me so Rachel's secret remains as such. So that's great.

Chris, this is serious. So many people could be hurt - how many were in the aquarium at that time?

Amber's phone did not vibrate again until the Uber reached South Boston, turning on the road that led to the Kennedy family museums. Signs stood beside said road; the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library was straight ahead, whereas the Edward M. Kennedy Institute for the United States Senate was located just off the road to the left.

Instead of driving to either of those locations, the driver swerved onto a scenic, seaside road that led to an imposing structure the size of the Boston Public Library at which Amber had begun her search. "This is the New England Bureau of Records," he muttered.

"Right, thank you," Amber replied. "I'll make sure to give you a 25% tip and a 5-star rating - you got me here quickly and safely, which is all I can ask for."

"Anytime, Amber" the driver said blankly, showing hardly any emotion at such high praise. Then again, he probably received this sort of praise all the time.

Amber then read the message Chris had most recently sent her: Where are you now?

I just arrived at the New England Bureau of Records, she responded, her fingers frolicking feverishly around the virtual keyboard.

Chris' reply was short and to the point: And what are you doing there? I hope it serves your goal.

It does. The woman at the Boston Public Library said that this is where I'd find the information about a specific person. But she sounded suspicious when I said I was looking for that person.

Why do you care? It's hardly as "sus" as someone cheating on an exam and covering it up, or the crimes Danny Sham is guilty of.

Another question occurred to Amber at that very moment. She had little reason to think Chris would answer it, but wasn't it worth a try?

What did he do, even? Why are you having me go after Danny Sham?

Considering the sheer amount of time it took for Chris to reply, Amber was almost disappointed that his answer was as short as it was.

I think you'll figure it out once you've found his name. I'm sure you can; you've got a very strong GPA at Harvard. I found that from your LinkedIn profile.

Is that where you found my phone number in the first place?

Yes. You're the head of the class - if you can't track our "friend" Danny down, nobody can.

Well, that answered one question. No longer did Amber have to wonder why a call from a then-unknown number had reached her. Chris had merely gone on one of the many networking websites that permeated today's Internet and fetched her contact information. Nothing on the web is secret.

In any case, Amber found herself unable to feel rage about that, at least for the moment. More important matters were at hand.

The humidity was starting to taper off, and the ocean breeze moderated any discomfort she might have felt. But Amber knew she needed to spend some time indoors, in this largely windowless structure that almost resembled a prison.

It'll feel like a prison soon enough, she thought bitterly.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Just inside the door, there was a metal detector, which Amber passed through, her iPhone and sunglasses riding on a conveyor belt alongside it. She was then told to place her belongings in a locker, an order with which she complied. After the security guard waved his wand and found nothing to fear, she was allowed in.

Beyond her was the front desk, behind which an older, bespectacled man sat at a computer. Much like the librarian she'd met this morning, this receptionist's eyes were nearly glazed over as he worked on the screen, clicking his keys every so often to type some command.

"Excuse me?" Amber asked.

The man looked up from his work. "Hello. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm visiting the Bureau of Records today for a very specific reason."

The receptionist raised his white eyebrow. "What might that reason be? And, for that matter, what's your name?"

"My name's Amber Hawkeye," she replied. "I'm a Chemistry major at Harvard." She would never tire of waving that title around like an Olympic medal. To her, it meant as much as such a medal would have.

"You are?" the man responded. "Well, I might ask what your purpose here is. This building is hardly geared toward those majoring in Chemistry. Now, if genealogy were a major at Harvard, I could understand…".

"I'm not here for Chemistry," Amber said. "The school year is over. I'm looking for a specific name in the records."

"I assume you're looking for information about your ancestors?" the receptionist inquired. "That's the most common reason people come here."

It would have been so easy to tell a white lie and say yes, but Amber couldn't bring herself to do so. She'd covered enough up in the last year.

"No. I'm looking for a friend of mine whom I lost contact with." It wasn't entirely true; indeed, only one of those three "facts" was an actual fact. But it was still the best excuse she could come up with on short notice.

"Well," the receptionist responded flatly, "if you're not planning on stalking this friend, if you're going to use this for informational purposes only…".

"I will" Amber swore. If she were in court, of course, she'd be looking at a perjury charge, but if she could save her best friend from court, it was worth it.

"Very well."

"Can I tell you who I'm looking for?" Amber asked him. "Just so you can give me some guidance on where to search?"

"No, Amber, I'm afraid not. We're not allowed to appear as though we're endorsing stalking. You'd have to find the record all on your own, and unless you have a very compelling reason, you're not allowed to bring it outside the Bureau."

"Fair enough."

"Well, if you're going to search, you might as well start now" the receptionist muttered. "We close at five."

That's still a good few hours away. I'm not going to need five hours to search this place, right? I'm sure there's an order to the chaos.

As soon as Amber passed through the double doors, however, she gasped.

The dimly lit chamber was easily double the size of the library Amber most recently frequented at Harvard, which was already, as a failed former President had said, yuge. There were dozens upon dozens of shelves, each containing what looked like thousands of folders detailing a given New England family.

I should start at the top. That way, it'll be a downhill battle, literally. Is that even a word? I guess it is now!

Amber took the elevator to the 10th floor of the building, then worked her way down. The ceiling may have been painted forest green with ornate golden trim, but there were bars on the windows, making it feel like a prison. And, as stated above, it would be Amber's prison until she found Danny Sham's record.

There's an order to this chaos. There has to be.

Amber mentally repeated those words like a prayer, as though by willing them into existence, she could make them come true. She walked the aisles with the stealth of an alleycat, ready to pounce at any moment when she found the name Sham.

These folders all represent one family. There's no reason why they wouldn't be in alphabetical order.

She found herself in the T section, where the family names ranged from Tolland to Toobrooks to Torrington. Amber then realized that she was probably headed the wrong way, so she turned around and glanced at the next shelf. She expected to see S names there, but did not.

Jensen…Jelinsky…Jekyll…what gives?

Amber knew she couldn't be anywhere close to the shelf she sought. She'd assumed that the names would all be listed in alphabetical order, but evidently she'd been wrong.

An employee of the bureau, a lithe woman probably in her late thirties, stood by a nearby section of shelf, placing a folder in between two others. The employee didn't appear to notice Amber.

The younger woman considered clapping, but it was poor form to make any loud noise in a library. So instead, Amber waved at the archivist to get her attention.

"You need help?" the archivist asked. Her name card identified her as Christie Grinell.

"Yeah," Amber admitted. "I'm looking for a certain name."

"Well, I can't give you its exact location," Christie admitted. "That's against the archive's rules."

"But you can tell me where to find a certain initial, right?" Amber replied. To some extent, she was grasping at straws here, but it's not like she had any other play.

"Because the positions of J and T in the English alphabet end in the digit 0, all surnames starting with that letter are on the tenth floor, since there is no Floor Zero here. The first floor has A, K, and U. I think that's all you…".

Indeed, Christie did not need to finish her sentence, because Amber practically bolted out of that row to the nearest elevator. She punched the button for the 9th floor and waited as the elevator s…l…o…w…l…y made its way down the shaft.

Once on the next floor down, Amber raced around until she found one of the S shelves. Saba…Sasa…Schandeliho…I'm making progress!

For fear of missing what she needed, the young woman resisted the thumping of her heart as she noted each name she saw.

Sellers…September…Sethi…Severance…Shade…there it is!

She'd found it! A folder bearing the name Sham!

There was just one problem. While Sham likely wasn't one of the more common surnames in New England, there might still be more than one family with the same name whose members weren't related to one another.

How do I know which one is right?

There were in fact three folders with the Sham label. One of them was for a family based in Essex County, Massachusetts; one was based in Kennebec County, Maine; and a third was from Orange County, Vermont. It occurred to Amber that she could call Chris to ask for guidance - if it were that important to find a specific Danny Sham, he sure wasn't making it easy. However, that would not work, because Amber had been forced to lock away her phone before entering the archives!

Realistically, if there are three Sham families, only one has a member named Daniel. That's what I hope, at least.

Amber decided to check the Massachusetts folder first. No dice. She then moved onto the Maine folder, which comprised a surprisingly large family - no fewer than a hundred sub-pages were there! Furthermore, many members of the Maine-based Sham family were deceased, which demonstrated that the living weren't the only people featured within the archives.

Still, nobody named Daniel was in the Maine folder, so she would need to search the Vermont one. The family had evidently lived in Tullamarine, Vermont for four generations, and there were dozens of pages to search through. To make matters worse, the files were not listed in alphabetical order by first name, but rather in chronological order by date of birth.

I don't know how old he is!

This ended up hardly mattering, however, because Amber found the page for Daniel Sham. She then took out the folder, figuring that if she needed to bring the page home, it would look less suspicious if she took the whole damn folder. Maybe then they'd think she was just very interested in a given family that maybe contained a chemist.

Amber could hardly breathe as she looked at Danny Sham's page. The photograph was that of a Caucasian boy in his late teens with fluffy, slightly curly brown hair and teal blue eyes. He didn't wear glasses and had very few freckles. A date of birth was given that, if it were accurate, would make him 21 years old; in other words, roughly Amber's age.

Honestly, he looks pretty handsome. But he's probably broken so many hearts that it's not worth keeping track.

Amber could not let those thoughts cloud her mind, instead focusing on the information presented on the page.

Daniel Sham had been born 21 years ago in Tullamarine, Vermont to father Richard Sham (an anesthesiologist) and mother Janelle Sham (a professor of Child Psychology at Champlain College). In other words, his upbringing was likely upper middle if not upper class, hardly the most sympathetic background for a potential criminal. There was no information available related to what school he'd attended, where he worked, or whom he'd married. (Of course, most 21-year-olds were not yet married, but that was beside the point.)

There was, however, a second date; one that had occurred nearly four years prior. Amber was puzzled for the split second it took her to notice that there was another word beside that date.

Died.

Amber dropped the file, pages fluttering along on their way to the floor. Her mouth nearly escaped her face, giving the term "jaw-dropping" a whole new meaning.

Her heart raced as Amber, too, raced to collect the papers that were now lying in a heap on the carpet. She pinched herself to ensure she still lived in reality and not some bizarre drug trip.

Finally, she calmed herself down, organized the pages as best she could, and made her way back to the lobby. There, the bespectacled receptionist waited in exactly the same chair as though nothing had happened.

Indeed, to the employees at the archives, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. They'd simply been doing their jobs. But Amber's world had just been blown out of the water like fish after a giant rock had been thrown into their pond.

The receptionist adjusted his glasses, then gave Amber a concerned look. "Is everything okay? Did you find what you need?"

"Yes, I did" Amber panted. "I have what I want."

"I told you earlier that you wouldn't be able to bring the records home unless you have a valid reason."

Amber gulped. What does this man consider a valid reason?

"I'm looking for a famous chemist" she responded, careful to only have the letter S visible to keep the surname somewhat ambiguous. "I'm doing a research project about him over the summer, and that's the name I was searching for. And I've found it."

The receptionist shrugged, though his look told Amber that he didn't entirely buy her story. Still, he clearly seemed willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Very well. You may take the records with you, but you're only allowed to keep them for three weeks. You will need to return them after that or face a fine for each day it remains overdue."

"Right," Amber responded. That was, after all, how libraries worked.

"I hope the research project goes well," the receptionist said simply, clearly resisting the urge to use a mocking tone.

"Thanks."

Once she'd returned to the afternoon sun, however, Amber was hardly thankful. Instead, she silently cursed her decision to go along with Chris. But she couldn't go back now - she'd promised to protect Rachel, and besides, she got the feeling that you didn't break a promise to Chris Courtland and expect it to end well. Still…

Chris told me I needed to search for Danny Sham. Unless "Danny" is a fake name, and he's listed under his real name in these archives, then this is him! I'm holding his folder!

So why would Chris have me search for someone who's already dead?