All because of her.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, letting the warmth hit my bloodstream. The familiar bitterness grounds me, pulls me back to the present.
And that’s when I hear it. A conversation at the next table snags my attention.
“Did you see the old Main Street Books is reopening?” A woman’s voice carries over from the table behind me.
“Yeah, fiction something or other. I saw the owner planting geraniums in flower boxes last week. She seems friendly,” another woman says with a hum.
“There’s no way Barbara Bergen approved flower boxes on a hundred-year-old building.” The first woman snorts.
Barbara Bergen is the head of the Avalon Falls Historical Society. It’s basically a social club for retirees with too much time and too many opinions. They spend their days preserving brick facades, arguing over paint colors, and vetoing anything they think disrupts the “integrity” of downtown.
“I still wonder what happened to Miri. She was such a free spirit. Tragic she left so young.”
“Tragic,” the other woman agrees.
I take another sip of coffee, but it doesn’t taste the same. Something itches at the back of my mind. A name. A vague familiarity. Like a song I’ve heard before but can’t quite place.
I shift in my seat, fingers tapping once against the paper cup before I set it down. Intrigue tiptoes down my spine, one centimeter at a time. I’m not usually one to indulge in small town gossip, but I’m feeling . . . curious today.
I drain the last of my coffee and rise from my seat, the tentative emotion too insistent to ignore now. I toss my empty cup in the trash and push open the door, stepping out onto Main Street.
The afternoon sun hangs high in the sky, bathing the historic brick buildings in a warm, golden glow. I turn right, falling into an easy stride as I head down the sidewalk. The air is crisp, charged—the first hint of a rainstorm lingering on the breeze.
I pass a few shops, the familiar scent of fresh bread wafting from the bakery, the soft chime of a bell as someone exits the boutique on the corner.
Then I pass the café, the murmur of conversation spilling out onto the street, the scent of roasted espresso trailing after me.
And that’s when I see it.
The sign catches my attention first.
A new one. Freshly painted. Hanging above the familiar brick storefront that used to house Main Street Books. But now, in elegant script, it reads: Fiction & Folklore.
The sign itself is a work of art, a masterpiece of wood and craftsmanship. The lettering is carved deep, bold and flowing, painted a rich antique gold that catches the afternoon light. The wood is stained a deep mahogany, polished to perfection, the edges softened by delicate etching—like the pages of an old storybook waiting to be opened.
My pulse kicks up, just slightly. I take a step toward the door when my phone rings. Slipping it free, I barely glance at the screen before my eyes snag on the contact photo.
Beau, mid-air over the lake, wearing the smallest pair of swim trunks I’ve ever seen.
I exhale sharply, rubbing my temple as I hit accept.
Shuffling back a few steps, I swipe to answer. “Why is there a half-naked photo of you jumping off the rope swing at the quarry as my contact photo?”
Laughter rumbles through the speaker, loud and unrepentant. “Jesus, it took you long enough to notice.”
“What?” I shake my head, glancing at the sign for Fiction & Folklore once more, the gold lettering gleaming in the afternoon light.
“I changed it like a week ago, bro. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Beau says between chuckles.
I drag my hand down my face, turning on my heel and pacing a few steps down the sidewalk. “We’re all smart. And how the hell did you manage to hack into my phone?”
The amusement in my voice fades as something else creeps in.
Paranoia.
A slow, crawling sensation along the back of my neck, raising the hair there.