Page 31 of Stolen Vows

I scan the obituary quickly, but the details are sparse. Miriam Astor, age fifty-two, died unexpectedly.

That’s it. No cause of death. No surviving family mentioned.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my neck from side to side, the vertebrae popping softly. The lack of familial details in the obituary tugs at something in my chest, a niggling sense that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

Could it really be that Francesca has no family? That Miriam Astor was her only relative, and now she’s truly alone in the world? The thought sits heavy in my gut, an unexpected ache blooming behind my ribs.

But no, that doesn’t feel right either.

I exhale sharply, fingers already moving as I run her name through Oracle. Sorting through medical records, property filings, social connections takes time. And no amount of glaring at my monitors ever makes it work faster.

I should step back, let the system do its work. But the restless energy under my skin won’t settle. I open another tab, pulling up a basic search.

Fiction & Folklore, Avalon Falls.

The first thing that comes up is the Fiction & Folklore social media page. My eyes widen as I click on the most recent post, dated twenty-seven minutes ago.

Grand Opening Celebration Today!the post reads, followed by a series of colorful emojis. Books, sparkles, hearts, and paw prints.

My fingers hover over the trackpad as I click through the photos in the carousel, each one igniting a sharp flare of intrigue beneath my skin.

The first image is a wide shot of the bookstore’s interior, honey-colored hardwood floors stretching out before towering bookshelves that line the exposed brick walls. Overstuffed armchairs upholstered in rich jewel tones sit invitingly in cozy reading nooks, nestled between the stacks. Hanging plants cascade from macrame holders, their glossy leaves adding pops of emerald green.

My gaze lingers on the last photo, my pulse drumming an uneven rhythm.

Francesca’s smiling at the camera, eyes alight with joy and pride, one hand resting on the fluffy head of her dog. Her hair tumbles past her shoulders in soft waves, the golden strands glinting under the warm glow of the vintage light fixtures.

She looks beautiful. Ethereal. Like she stepped out of the pages of one of those novels she stocks on the shelves behind her.

I exhale slowly, my eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, committing every detail to memory. The gentle slope of her nose. The fullness of her lips, curved into a radiant smile. The smattering of freckles dusting her cheeks.

I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand through my hair. This woman has been an unsolvable puzzle for ten years. Popping into my life in brief, vivid moments before disappearing again without a trace. Leaving me with more questions than answers. More curiosity than sense.

And now, after all this time, she’s here. In Avalon Falls. Owning a bookstore two miles away like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like she belongs here.

The thought tugs at something deep in my chest. Like a key sliding into a lock, tumblers clicking into place.

Something possessive and primal that I don’t quite understand. That I’m not sure I want to examine too closely.

I exhale slowly, my gaze still locked on the photo of Francesca smiling at the camera.

I’m going to that grand opening.

I push to my feet, but hesitation lashes around my ankles. It’s the certainty of it. That if I go downtown this morning, Iwillsee her. It’s not a chance, but a guarantee. And for some reason, that stretches across my skin like a wetsuit. Restrictive and thick, pressing against my ribs.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling a low, frustrated, “Fuck.”

I can’t show up empty-handed either. Normally, my mother is the go-to for this type of situation. She’s kind and generous, and never shows up empty-handed to a party.

But she’s also perceptive and nosy as hell. Too quick to read between the lines, and never missing an opportunity to ask when all of her children are going to settle down.

So, she’s out. Which leaves one person.

I snag my phone from my desk, and a moment later, ringing fills the room.

“Yeah?” my brother grumbles on speakerphone.

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