Episode 7
1198 Words
A TRUTH WRAPPED IN SHADOWS
The Ashmoor Public Library was eerily quiet.
Eloise stepped through the heavy front doors, her footsteps muffled against the carpeted floor. The air smelled faintly of dust and lavender-scented disinfectant, the kind used to keep old places feeling faintly alive. A few retirees lingered at the newspaper rack, and the teenage librarian behind the desk gave her a disinterested glance.
Eloise walked past them toward the archives section tucked behind a set of oak-paneled doors. She’d barely slept since her discovery the night before. Every fiber of her being buzzed with adrenaline—and dread.
She’d told Rowan about Derrick Vance, and now he was off consulting one of his old contacts in Portland. A private investigator friend who owed him a favor. Eloise, however, couldn’t sit idle.
She had to know what Derrick was hiding.
She had to understand how this all tied back to her—to them.
The archive room was dim, lit only by the pale slant of sunlight filtering through tall, dust-smeared windows. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with yellowing newspapers, old legal records, and meticulously cataloged town minutes dating back to the late 1800s.
Eloise logged into the ancient desktop computer in the corner and pulled up the town’s digitized files. It took only ten minutes of keyword searches before something clicked.
Derrick Vance — 2014 — Ashmoor Development Scandal.
Her pulse quickened.
She scanned the article.
Ten years ago, a quiet inquiry had launched into a supposed land development deal involving several members of Ashmoor’s elite. A multi-million-dollar lakefront property had been exchanged under dubious pretenses. Several names were redacted in the released report, but Derrick Vance’s was not. The article hinted at fraud, money laundering, and—strangely—charitable donations tied to false nonprofits.
And one other name stood out.
Hale Enterprises.
Eloise’s breath hitched.
Rowan’s father, she remembered. He was on the board of Hale Enterprises, the family’s real estate group.
This wasn’t just Rowan’s past.
It was his father’s.
She flipped through the remaining records until she found an article listing a mysterious whistleblower who tried to report the incident but disappeared from public record.
Could it have been Rowan?
Before she could fully process that thought, a rustling noise echoed behind her.
She spun.
The archive doors creaked open an inch, then swung fully shut.
But no one stepped inside.
“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling.
Silence.
Her heart pounded. She quickly printed the article, folded it, and slipped it into her purse. Then, grabbing her bag, she hurried out of the room, not daring to look back.
Back at the bookstore that afternoon, Eloise kept glancing toward the entrance, waiting for Rowan. Her writing group was gathering in the side reading room—blissfully unaware of the swirling storm outside their love triangles and prose critiques.
“Your turn, Eloise!” chirped Diane, the retired English teacher turned erotic poetry enthusiast.
Eloise blinked. “Sorry?”
“Your five-minute writing sprint. The prompt was ‘a secret that could ruin everything.’”
Oh, the irony.
Eloise hesitated, then opened her notebook and read aloud without even realizing she was writing truth wrapped in fiction.
> “He never meant to keep it from her, not really. But the truth was heavy. Dangerous. If she knew, she’d walk away. And he—he’d rather bleed in silence than lose her again.”
A hush fell across the group.
Even Diane blinked.
“Well, damn,” muttered Jason, the barista-turned-romantic-suspense writer. “That was... intense.”
Eloise gave a tight smile.
Everything felt like it was unraveling in slow motion.
When the workshop finally ended, Rowan arrived. He looked tired—tense—but his face lit up when he saw her.
“Got your message,” he said quietly. “You okay?”
“No,” she replied. “But I found something. Come with me.”
They locked the bookstore early and headed back to her place.
She handed him the printed article.
Rowan read in silence.
When he finished, he leaned back in the armchair, his face pale.
“My dad always said there were reasons we left Ashmoor. He never explained. Just called it a necessary sacrifice. I thought it had to do with money, or the divorce. I never knew... this.”
“You think he was involved?”
“I think... he might’ve tried to protect someone. Maybe even me.”
“Protect you from what?” she whispered.
Rowan’s fingers clenched the paper. “From knowing how corrupt it all really was.”
They sat in silence, memories and possibilities wrapping around them like fog.
Then Eloise’s phone pinged.
Another message.
Unknown Number: You dig too deep, you drown.
Rowan stood up, his face carved from stone. “That’s it. I’m done playing defense.”
He pulled out his phone and made a call.
“James? I need that favor now.”
The next day, they met with Rowan’s friend in Portland—James Lin, private investigator and cybersecurity expert. He was lean, fast-talking, and wore designer glasses like armor.
Eloise recounted everything—beginning to end.
James listened carefully, then smiled grimly. “Okay. Time to trace the ghost.”
He plugged Eloise’s phone into his laptop and typed rapidly.
“Whoever this is, they’re not just using a spoofing app. They’re masking their IP, bouncing it across VPNs in Europe. But no one’s perfect. Everyone leaves crumbs.”
Minutes ticked by.
Then James froze. “Got something. A blip. A signal lapse. Local. From Ashmoor. And guess what? The ping bounced off a Wi-Fi source registered to—wait for it—‘Vance for Oregon Headquarters.’”
Eloise gasped. “So it is Derrick?”
“Maybe. Or someone working with him. Either way, your letter stirred up a nest of snakes.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched. “What can we do?”
“I’ll dig more. In the meantime, you two need to play it smart. No sudden moves. Let me monitor the messages. When they strike next, we’ll be ready.”
That night, Rowan stayed at Eloise’s.
He cooked pasta—badly—and they ended up laughing through a dinner of toast and red wine.
Later, sitting on her porch swing, the air between them thickened.
“Do you regret coming back?” he asked.
Eloise rested her head on his shoulder. “Not anymore.”
Rowan brushed her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
“You won’t,” she said softly. “But I need to know, Rowan... if things get worse, if this gets ugly—are you still all in?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’m all in. No matter what.”
He kissed her then.
Slow and deep, the kind that made the world disappear and all her doubts slip away.
And somewhere in the shadows, someone watched from the trees.
A phone in hand.
Camera shutter clicking.
The next morning, Eloise opened her email.
One new message.
No subject.
No name.
Just an image.
Her and Rowan.
Kissing.
On the porch.
And beneath it, a single line:
Time’s up.
- Writer
