Page 30 of Stolen Vows

Or maybe I’d run into her at the coffee shop again. Of course, that would be easier if I hadn’t spent the entire week avoiding the coffee shop like a goddamn coward.

But it’s been seven days. Not a single glimpse of her. At this point, I’m half-convinced I made her up. Some kind of sleep-deprived hallucination.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. It’s time.

I could walk by the bookstore, but at this time of day, it wouldn’t matter if she was real or not. It’s hours before anything opens.

Which means there’s only one way to prove my sanity.

I shake my protein drink as I stride toward my office, flicking on the lights with a sharp click. The glow from my monitors floods the room, casting long shadows against the walls. I set my drink down, rolling my shoulders back, flexing my fingers.

Usually, I start the morning with lo-fi beats, something slow, methodical. But there’s something foreign pounding against my skin, pushing and prodding at me. This kind of deep dive requires something different.

Something heavier.

I scroll through my playlist, settling on something relentless. Because that’s what I need to be.

I tell myself it’s just curiosity. A test. Half-convinced that I’m only looking now to see how I can improve the software. To see what steps I can take to connect more dots for clients in the future. The fact that most of my clients aren’t looking for missing people is irrelevant. I could easily apply it to something else.

Or fuck it. Maybe I’ll write a new extension. Something to track movements and digital footprints. Something to trace the spaces between. I’m sure it could be useful. Forsomething.

I pull up her folder, adding in the few new details I’ve gathered. It’s not much. Less than I expected.

I don’t even have her last name yet, for fuck’s sake. But what Idohave is the bookstore name. That’s enough to start.

I pull up the public business records, easy to access, no hacking required. City, state, and federal databases track commercial property ownership, licensing, and tax filings.

Fiction & Folklore should be listed under whoever owns it.

Except . . . it’s not. The owner isn’t a person. It’s a company. A preliminary search later, and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s a shell company.

“Shit.” That’s absolutely a red flag.

Most people don’t register a bookstore under a shell company unless they have something to hide.

So the mystery of Francesca deepens, my curiosity reignited.

I run the company name through my system, and it comes back clean. No hits. A basic search yields no digital trail, no board of directors, no financial filings for this company.

I exhale sharply, tapping my fingers once against my desk. I lean back in my chair, eyes still locked on the screen, as I rack my brain for the next steps. What about the previous bookstore owner? What was the name again? Everyone called it Main Street Books, but I don’t think it was the actual business name. It was something unusual, something that stood out.

I close my eyes, digging through old memories, trying to picture the faded wooden sign that used to hang above the shop’s door. “Maple Books. No, that’s not it. Maybe Storybook?”

I sift through years of passing by that little bookstore—on my way to the coffee shop, the gym, or just cutting through downtown. The image slowly sharpens. Weathered white letters, peeling at the edges, stretched over the big block text of Main Street Books.

My eyes snap open as the memory clicks into place. “Lavender Storybook Emporium.” That was the full name.

I type it into a search engine, fingers flying across the keyboard, and wait for the results to populate.

I get lucky with a few hits. A couple local newspaper articles, a bare-bones website that hasn’t been updated in a decade, and finally, the business registration records.

I scan the documents quickly, searching for a name. And there it is, at the bottom of the page, in faded ink. Miriam Astor, sole proprietor.

I run her name through my system next, watching as data populates across my screens. Newspaper articles about the bookstore, a few property records, and an obituary from five years ago.

My heart kicks against my ribs, sharp and insistent.

Could this be Francesca’s aunt?

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