Episode 5
1619 Words
THE COFFEE SHOP CONFESSIONAL
The next morning, Eloise took her coffee black and her nerves sharper.
She sat at a window table in The Velvet Bean, Ashmoor’s coziest coffee shop and a haven for writers, gossipers, and those who needed to eavesdrop over cappuccinos without being judged. The walls were lined with shelves of secondhand books, plants draped lazily from the rafters, and mismatched couches offered comfort that bordered on seductive. Eloise usually loved the charm of it.
Today, it felt like the inside of a fishbowl.
She kept glancing toward the door, her fingers drumming against the ceramic mug. Rowan was late. Ten minutes late, which wouldn’t have mattered if they hadn’t planned to meet at ten sharp. She hated that she cared.
She’d texted him last night—eventually. Just a short, polite response to his emotional message. Nothing that invited further intimacy. Nothing that hinted at the letter, the rock, or the fact that her heart hadn’t stopped aching since she’d read the truth. Again.
The bell over the door jingled. She looked up.
Rowan entered, wind-tousled and breathless, shrugging out of his jacket. His eyes found hers immediately.
And just like that, the breath she’d been holding all morning escaped her chest.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he slid into the seat across from her. “There was an unexpected delivery at the store. And I spilled coffee on my shirt, so this is technically my third attempt at a presentable entrance.”
She looked at him.
Then looked again.
“No wonder you’re a bookstore co-owner and not a ninja,” she said. “You’d be a very loud one.”
He grinned. “You missed me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I didn’t say you admitted it. I said you missed me. Secretly. Probably against your will.”
Eloise rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. Damn him.
A waitress came by, took Rowan’s order, and disappeared again. For a moment, they sipped their drinks in silence, watching people stroll past the front windows.
Then Eloise said, “Someone left a threatening message in the store yesterday.”
Rowan blinked. “We’re just jumping right in, then?”
“No time for small talk.”
“Right.” He leaned forward. “Do you really think it’s connected to that letter you found?”
She nodded slowly. “It’s too convenient not to be. The message, the broken window, and that letter being tucked into that specific book in that specific stack… It’s not random.”
Rowan’s expression darkened. “So you think someone wanted to hide the truth—and now that you’ve found it, they want to scare you into silence.”
Eloise met his gaze. “That’s exactly what I think.”
He exhaled. “Then we need to find out who would go that far.”
“I was hoping you’d say we.” Her voice softened. “I can’t do this alone, Rowan.”
“You’re not alone.” His eyes burned with something fierce and familiar. “You’ve never been.”
She blinked. Then looked away. “Then we start with the letter.”
They returned to her cottage a short while later, the letter tucked inside her notebook. Eloise spread out her notes on the coffee table—pages of scribbled theories, possible names, and a list of every person who could’ve intercepted the original message ten years ago.
“I don’t understand who would’ve had access,” she muttered, pacing. “I remember giving that letter to Mel to put in your dorm box. She said she dropped it off. That was the day before I left for my mom’s surgery.”
“Mel… as in Melanie Carter?” Rowan frowned.
“Yeah. My old roommate. She was always the organized one. Would color-code her laundry if given half a chance.”
Rowan scratched his jaw. “I remember her. Blonde. Intense. Used to hum Taylor Swift while brushing her teeth?”
“That’s the one.”
He hesitated. “Have you talked to her lately?”
Eloise shook her head. “We lost touch. She moved to Portland, got a job in PR, and then we just… drifted.”
“What if she never mailed the letter?”
Eloise stopped pacing. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe she saw something in it she didn’t like.”
A chill swept through her. “You think she read it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s worth finding out.”
Eloise dropped onto the couch. “I don’t want to believe she’d do that.”
Rowan sat beside her. “People do a lot of things when they think they’re protecting someone. Or themselves.”
She turned to look at him. “Like disappearing without saying goodbye?”
He flinched.
“I wanted to tell you everything,” he said, voice low. “But I was being blackmailed, Lo. Someone threatened to go public with something personal—something about my family. I didn’t know how to handle it. And when I got that anonymous message saying you knew and were walking away... I thought it was over.”
Eloise’s throat closed.
“I never walked away,” she whispered. “I waited. And when I didn’t hear from you, I thought… maybe I didn’t matter as much as I thought.”
“You mattered,” he said fiercely. “More than anything. I was in love with you, Eloise. I still—”
She stood abruptly. “Don’t. Not yet. I can’t—there’s too much unfinished between us.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. But I’m not going anywhere this time.”
Later that afternoon, they stopped by the town’s historical archive. Eloise claimed it was for research. Rowan knew better.
“Looking for any mysterious names to pop up?” he teased as she scrolled through a digital registry of Ashmoor residents.
“I’m looking for patterns. For connections. For anyone who might’ve had access to that bookstore back then, or to us.”
He whistled low. “You really are a romance novelist s***h detective now.”
“Don’t mock the process.”
“Never.”
An old woman behind the counter looked over her glasses. “If you’re trying to solve a town mystery, dear, you’ll want to talk to Ned. He knows everything and can’t keep a secret to save his life.”
“Who’s Ned?” Rowan asked.
“Caretaker of the bookshop for nearly thirty years. Retired now. Lives up the hill near the lake.”
Eloise exchanged a glance with Rowan.
Field trip.
Ned’s cabin was exactly what one might expect of a retired bookstore caretaker: cluttered, charming, and heavy with the scent of pipe tobacco and nostalgia. He greeted them with a warm smile and a cane carved from driftwood.
“Oh, I remember you two,” he said cheerfully. “Back then, always huddled in the back corner, whispering like the world would end if you stopped looking at each other for more than ten seconds.”
Eloise blushed.
Rowan coughed. “We were subtle.”
Ned laughed. “You were loudly subtle, which is the worst kind.”
Over tea, Eloise explained her find. The letter. The book. The rock.
Ned’s brow furrowed. “I remember that book. The Lavender Embrace, wasn’t it? Old first edition, used to sit in the glass case until someone requested it. Can’t recall who. Maybe one of the interns moved it.”
“Do you know who was working there at the time?” Rowan asked.
Ned tapped his fingers. “Well, there was Carla, my niece. Then there was Dev—bit of a loner, always had ink on his hands. And… hmm… Mel Carter, wasn’t it? Worked a few weeks for credit.”
Eloise sat up straighter. “Mel?”
Ned nodded. “Yes, yes. Blonde girl, clipboard always in hand. Said she wanted experience for her resume.”
Eloise exchanged a stunned look with Rowan.
“She had access to the inventory,” she said quietly.
“And to the back room where we kept the rare books,” Ned added. “Why?”
Rowan stood. “We need her number. Or address.”
Ned pointed to a dusty phone book on the shelf. “Have at it, detectives.”
By nightfall, Eloise was back at her cottage, pacing.
“I can’t believe she worked there. She knew how much that book meant to me. It was the first one you gave me.”
Rowan nodded. “She might’ve taken the letter. Or hidden it. But why?”
“I don’t know. Jealousy? Mistrust? Or maybe someone asked her to.”
He folded his arms. “So we confront her?”
She nodded. “Together.”
Rowan stepped closer. “Are you sure? Because this means reopening a wound. It means hearing truths you might not want to hear.”
“I already did that,” she said, meeting his gaze. “When I read that letter. Now I want closure.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
“Don’t butter me up, Hale.”
“Too late.”
Their breath mingled in the quiet space between them.
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her.
For a moment, she wanted him to.
But then her phone rang.
She pulled back, heart pounding. The caller ID read:
Unknown Number.
She answered.
A rasping voice spoke, distorted and cold.
“You should’ve left it alone, Eloise.”
Then the line went dead.
- Writer
