The Ledger Apart

The evening air was heavy, thick with the lingering warmth of the day as Jessica and Olivia walked away from the Vatican Library. The streetlights flickered to life, casting long, uneven shadows on the cobblestones.

Neither woman spoke. Jessica’s mind was still locked inside the archives buried in brittle pages, half-faded ink, and a name that should not have been there. She’d seen her name in other centuries before. But never in a book like this, never apart from the rest. Pasolini had seen this same page. That’s why she was here.

Pasolini hadn’t just stumbled upon a hidden truth. He had recognized it. Jessica couldn’t shake the feeling that she was standing in his place. She feared that the pattern was repeating, but this time, she was the one being watched.

“If the ledger wasn’t destroyed,” she finally murmured in a voice that was meant for herself more than anyone else to hear, “someone kept it.”

Olivia’s voice cut through the stillness as if she just realized that Jessica had said something. “So… what now?” Her hands were deep in her jacket pockets, but her posture was alert, the tension in her shoulders betraying her restlessness.

Jessica’s eyes scanned the street, as if expecting to see something move just beyond the edge of vision. She answered in a very matter of fact tone as if the answer to Olivia’s question was obvious, “We find it.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Right. Just walk into the Vatican and ask nicely. That worked so well the first time.”

Jessica didn’t smile. “Montesi said it was destroyed. But we both saw his face.”

Olivia nodded slowly. “He was lying. Or protecting someone.”

Jessica exhaled through her nose. “Either way… we go back.”

* * *

By morning, they were watching the same weathered stone residence as before, tucked into a quiet street behind the library. Father Luca Montesi’s door remained closed, its pale wood washed in the soft light of early sun.

Jessica stood with arms crossed, weight shifting slowly from one foot to the other. She looked less like a detective today and more like someone chasing a ghost that wouldn’t stay buried.

“He knows why you’re here,” Olivia said, her voice low. “That’s why he ran out the clock last time.”

Jessica nodded. “Then he can stop pretending now.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Montesi appeared from around the corner, leather satchel across his chest, his collar askew, eyes downcast in thought. He froze when he saw them. Not surprised. Just… resigned. Jessica stepped forward, intercepting him halfway up the path.

“Father Montesi.”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable. But this time, he didn’t deflect. Didn’t run. He unlocked the door and stepped aside.

“Come in,” he said. “If you’re still asking about the ledger… then I suppose it’s time.”

* * *

The interior was unchanged. Books slouched in chaotic stacks. Parchment-yellowed manuscripts leaned against dusty brass lamps. The smell of dried ink and candle wax hung in the air. Montesi moved toward his desk without a word. Jessica and Olivia followed, saying nothing.

“You were right,” Montesi said finally, not looking at them. “I lied.”

Jessica’s voice was quiet, steady. “The ledger from 1784. You didn’t destroy it.”

Montesi closed his eyes. “Because I couldn’t.”

He reached into a drawer and retrieved a small iron key, then crossed the room to an old cabinet they hadn’t noticed last time. With a quiet click, the lock yielded. From the shadowed interior, he withdrew a single leather-bound volume. The dust was thick on the cover, the spine weathered but intact. A relic not only of time, but of intent.

He set it down gently on the desk as though it were sacred, “This is what you came for.”

Jessica stared at it, her throat tightening.

Montesi’s voice dropped to a hush. “And you are not the first to see it.”

Jessica already knew what came next for anyone who had. Pasolini had been proof of that.

* * *

The book was heavier than she expected. She opened it slowly. The pages were thick, parchment-like. The ink had faded in places but clung stubbornly to the surface, as if refusing to let time erase it.

She flipped through names. Many were written in Latin, some in Greek, others so archaic they bordered on symbols. And then she found it. Her breath stilled. Jessica Sanchez - 1784. Written clearly, unmistakably.

It wasn’t the name that caught her. It was where it had been written, and why Pasolini had followed it here. She stared at it for a long time. Olivia leaned in, and her sharp breath betrayed her shock. Beneath Jessica’s name, a line of Latin etched in precise script:

Ad perpetuam memoriam. Quod non moritur.

“To eternal memory. That which does not die.” Jessica’s fingers tightened around the page. Not just her initials. Her full name. In a book predating her birth by centuries.

She looked at Montesi. “Who wrote this?”

He hesitated. “The Jesuits of the time. Those who… watched.”

Jessica narrowed her eyes. “Watched what?”

Montesi gave a small shake of his head, as though the answer was too large to name.

“The cycle.”

“And why erase it?”

His reply came softly. “Because they feared what they saw.”

* * *

Jessica lowered herself into a chair, the book still open in her lap. This wasn’t just an anomaly. It wasn’t theory anymore. It was intent. Someone had written her name down, centuries ago, and marked it for remembrance.

Pasolini had followed the same trail. He had found the record. He had understood what it meant. They killed him for it..

Olivia’s voice was subdued. “He wasn’t just killed because he found the truth.”

Jessica nodded slowly. “He was killed because he recognized it.”

Montesi didn’t contradict her.

Jessica looked up from the book, her voice steady. “Why did you keep it?”

Montesi met her gaze. His face was tired, almost mournful.“Because someone had to.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was weighted with centuries. Jessica had spent her life running from the past, but the past had never stopped chasing her. Now, she wasn’t running anymore. She was standing in the place she had always been meant to reach.

She traced her name on the page one last time, the same way Pasolini must have. He’d died for recognizing it. Jessica had no intention of sharing his fate. But to avoid it, she would have to follow the same trail, straight into the dark.