Between Shadows

Between Shadows: Chapter 02-C (The Raven's Dilemma)

“Lorian, you know him.” Evelyn studied him. “So, is it a family thing? A weird tradition? Naming every heir after the founder? Must get confusing. I’d say narcissistic, but that feels redundant.”

He finally looked at her, calm as ever. “You think it’s a dynasty.”

“I think it’s a legacy project. It has all the marks of one. Preservation orders, architectural homage, obsessive brand consistency.” She glanced at the paper in her hand. “And a name that won’t die.”

The silence stretched just long enough to feel weighted.

“If you’re not going to correct me,” she added, “I’m going to assume I’m right.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Evelyn folded the letter carefully, set it aside, and opened the next—but didn’t read it. The air had changed again. Not colder, not tense. Just thick with something that hadn’t been named yet.

“You know,” she said, not quite looking at him, “I’m trying really hard not to assume the worst.”

Lorian didn’t answer right away. She glanced up and caught the faintest tension in his jaw.

“I’ve worked with obsessive historians,” she continued. “Collectors. Conspiracy theorists. You’re not any of those.”

“Not full-time, anyway,” he said, too lightly.

She ignored that. “But you know more than you should. About the Filigree. About Silas. About all of this. And every time I ask, you dodge.”

He finally met her eyes. “I’m not trying to lie to you.”

“No,” she said. “You’re trying not to say too much.”

Lorian exhaled slowly, setting his folder down. “Ask one question.”

She asked immediately. “What’s your connection to him?”

He paused for a minute, still forming an answer. “We’ve known each other for close to fifteen years. He came to me when I started digging into the inconsistencies in the restoration records. Variances that didn’t make sense. Permits that didn’t match the original layouts. I thought he was a legal consultant, maybe something adjacent to the hotel’s board. I didn’t get the full picture until later.”

Evelyn tilted her head slightly. “And the full picture was what?”

“One question.”

“I didn’t say I’d behave. Call it a clarification.”

Lorian almost smiled half-heartedly. “It was romantic. For a while. Or something like it. Mostly on my end, somewhat one-sided, as it turned out.”

Evelyn blinked once, then gave a short, skeptical huff. “You and Silas.”

Lorian gave her a sidelong glance. “That hard to picture?”

“Honestly? A little,” she said. “Not because it’s you. Because it’s him. The man has all the warmth of a tax audit.”

“Yeah,” Lorian said, dry. “Try dating that for five years.”

“Five years?” Her brows lifted.

“Most of it was quiet. Convenient. I think he liked that I asked questions he didn’t expect—and that I didn’t ask too many he didn’t want to answer.”

“And then he locked you out?”

Lorian looked down, rubbing the side of his thumb against a coffee-stained corner of the folder. “That’s the part I still don’t get. One day we were circling the same arguments, the next, his calls stopped. A week later, I show up and Faye told me he’d revoked access.”

Evelyn frowned. “No warning?”

“None. He didn’t end things. No dramatic exit. Just silence and a revoked card. True to form.”

“Like he’s keeping you in reserve.”

“Or waiting to see if I’ll knock again.”

“Would you?”

Lorian hesitated, biting back a remark. “Some days I think I would. Then I remember how it ended and wonder what that says about me.”

“That you’re human, and maybe still healing. Though if you ask me, spending your days buried in his family’s leftover paperwork feels a lot like self-inflicted punishment.” She paused, tracing a faint crease in the letter. “And you really don’t know why.”

He shook his head. “I’d say it’s what I’ve been writing, but I’ve been doing that for years. Could’ve been something I said. Something I saw. With him, you don’t always know where the line is until you’re halfway over it.”

Evelyn was quiet for a moment, measuring his tone, his posture, the things he wasn’t saying. “You could’ve lied,” she said eventually.

“I know.”

“But you didn’t.” Evelyn looked at him again. “Why did you tell me?”

Lorian looked up slowly, and for once didn’t look away. “Because I want you to keep asking questions. Just not today. And preferably over something stronger than coffee. Just enough to quit overthinking everything.”

Evelyn shook her head—not in dismissal, but like something in her had finally eased. “Then next time, I’m ordering the drinks.”

Lorian cracked a smile. “Fair trade.”

—

They worked through the afternoon, late into the evening. The letters blurred together, their rhythms too polished to be honest. Evelyn’s temples throbbed with the quiet persistence of fatigue from too many half-truths piled on top of one another. Her mind had numbed, her focus narrowing to single phrases she couldn’t quite forget.

She skimmed another letter:

I was surprised to see your byline again—surprised, but not disappointed. You’ve always had a gift for finding angles others miss. I only hope your sources have been equally discerning. It would be a shame if enthusiasm outpaced accuracy.

She let the letter in her hands drift back to the table and leaned back in her chair. “At this point, I half-expect the next letter to come scented, with a footnote that says ‘drop the story or I’ll ruin your life—fondly, Silas.’” She pushed the letter toward Lorian. “This one seems timely. And it’s postmarked. Where the hell did this come from?”

Lorian flipped it open, and rolled his eyes after a few seconds of reading. “Must’ve gotten mixed in with the ones from Faye. Journalist’s personal archive. Estate sale. Most of it was old notebooks and half-finished exposés. Guess it missed the bonfire.”

She stared at the letter, then at him. “He threatened a reporter?”

“Silas didn’t discriminate. If you had an audience, he had a message.”

She pressed her fingers to her eyes, shaking her head. “Of course he did.”

Lorian watched her for a second. “You’re laughing.”

“Feels like the only sane response left.”

He smiled faintly, but she could see the same fatigue in his posture—shoulders tight, eyes a little too dull around the edges. For all his obsession with the past, it clearly cost him.

“I’m heading back to the hotel soon,” she said after a bit. “But—if you’re free Monday—I could use help cataloging what we pulled.”

Lorian looked up, a little too quickly. “At the Filigree?”

“Assuming you’re still barred from the fancy floors.” She tried to sound casual.

“Still very much barred,” he said, then tilted his head. “You sure you want me there?”

“You know this mess a lot better than I do.”

He seemed to consider that, then nodded slowly. “All right. Monday.”

“But,” she said, leveling a finger at him, “we both actually take a break from it after that. No midnight note-scrawling, no spontaneous cross-referencing, no dragging blueprints across the table like you’re summoning the dead.”

He blinked. “That specific?”

“I’ve seen you work.”

He huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “What’s the catch?”

Evelyn shrugged. “I could use an extra day off. We go back to the hotel archive, organize the mess properly. After that, we do something—literally anything—that isn’t wrapped in parchment or suspicious handwriting.”

“Wait, are you—” His grin curved upward. “Are you trying to take me out?”

“I’m trying,” she said, standing and stretching the stiffness from her spine, “to remind both of us that there’s still a world outside this obsession. Whether or not you count as part of it is still up for debate.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take it.”