30October2025
I arrived at the council library on the outskirts of Whitby just as the fog was lifting off the river. The building itself is a former Victorian grammar school, its lofty ceilings and ornate cornices still echoing the grandeur of a bygone era. The parquet floor beneath my shoes creaks in warning whenever a visitor approaches, as if the old wood wants to announce their arrival before they even turn the corner.
This morning the head librarian, Angela Parker, perched her spectacles on the tip of her nose and handed me a stack of catalogue cards. Eleanor, could you check the third drawer? The students have mixed everything up again, she said, her voice tired yet precise. And please dont stay too late tonight. Youve been working far too many hours lately.
I nodded, barely looking up from the glow of my laptop. Will do, Angela. I just need to finish the electronic inventory of the new acquisitions first.
Angela gave a small shake of her head and stepped out of the cataloguing department, her sensible heels clicking against the aged parquet. The library has always been a place of constant work for me. I love the smell of fresh paper, the rustle of turning pages, even the dust that settles on the top shelves despite Aunt Claras diligent sweeping. Here I feel useful, grounded, and somewhat protected from the quiet emptiness that has settled over my flat since Simon left, taking with him the warmth that once filled our modest home. Now the only companion is the ticking of the old mantel clock my grandmother bequeathed to me.
A moment later, Emily Hart, the young librarian from the membership desk, poked her head into the room. Eleanor, dont forget we have the author talk tomorrow. We need the small hall ready and the flyers printed.
I remember, Emily, I replied, forcing a smile. The flyers are already in the top drawer of my desk. Grab them yourself; I still have to finish the catalogue.
She walked over to the massive oak desk where I was seated, pulled the top drawer open, and extracted a thick folder of printed flyers. While rummaging, she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
Whats this? she asked, unfolding the folded sheet.
I turned to look.
Its just a note, probably fell out of the folder.
Emily handed me the folded paper. I unfolded it and read three words scrawled in a hurried hand: He knows. Run.
My heart missed a beat. My first thought was that it was a joke, but deep down I sensed it wasnt. I slipped the note into my coat pocket, trying to appear indifferent. Probably one of the students dropped it, I said, keeping my voice flat. Theyre always passing notes around.
Emily shrugged and went off to hang the flyers. When the door closed behind her, I took the note out again. He knows. Run. Who? Why? And who had written this warning?
The handwriting was familiar, yet I couldnt place it. It wasnt any of the staffs scriptsperhaps Simons? But why would he write something like that? Our breakup was amicable; he simply said he no longer felt the connection we once had and that we should remain friends. A very ordinary, almost clichéd ending to a fouryear relationship.
I tried to concentrate on the catalogue, but the note kept looping in my mind. By the end of the day I finally completed the entries, handed my keys to the night guard, and stepped out into a damp October evening. A light drizzle fell, blurring the streetlamps into hazy yellow pools of light.
The walk home was fifteen minutesusually a pleasant stroll past the old town park and through a cosy courtyard with a swing set where children played during the day. Tonight, however, every shadow seemed threatening, every distant footfall made me flinch. He knows. Run. Run from whom?
I entered the building, relieved by the quiet and the soft glow of the hallway lights. On the third floor, I turned the key to my flat. Inside, the familiar silence was broken only by the faint scent of cinnamon from the sachet I had hung near the door, a small comfort against Simons absence.
I made tea, opened the fridge, and stared at the leftover salad without appetite. The phone rang, flashing my mothers name.
Hello, Mum, I said, trying to sound calm.
Emily dear, how are you? she asked, worry in her voice. Ive been feeling uneasy all day. Is everything alright with you?
Its fine, Mum. Just tired from work, I replied, lying. She had been fretting about my split with Simon; I didnt want to add another worry. Maybe you could bake a pie this weekend? You could have me over for a few days.
Perhaps, love. Lets chat on Friday, okay?
After hanging up, the solitude pressed harder. I glanced at the note again: He knows. Run.
A sudden knock at the door startled me. It was tenp.m., an odd hour for a visitor. I tiptoed to the peephole and saw Michael Stevens, the elderly neighbour from the flat above.
Whos there? I called out, cautious.
Its me, Michael. Sorry for the late visit, but I think theres a leak in my pipe. Does any water come through to your flat?
No, its dry here, I replied, relieved. Thanks for checking.
He muttered an apology and left, promising a plumber would come tomorrow. I laughed at my own nerves, realizing the note was probably just a prank by some student, my imagination running wild after all those detective novels Id been devouring lately.
I tried to sleep, but the night was restless. The rain pattered against the window, distant car horns punctuated the silence, and every creak seemed ominous. By morning, I was exhausted but determined to face the days schedule: the authors talk, arranging the hall, and finishing the new arrivals.
The library buzzed with activity. Angela issued instructions, Emily set up chairs in the small hall, and Aunt Clara scrubbed the floors with a frown.
Eleanor, a tall man in a dark coat asked for you earlier, Aunt Clara said as I passed by. He said hed come back later.
A flicker of the notes phrase crossed my mind again. Who could that be?
I settled at my desk, trying to focus, when a knock interrupted me.
Come in, I called.
The door opened to reveal a tall stranger in a dark coat. His face was familiarAndrew Collins, a former classmate of Simons, someone Id only met a handful of times over the years.
Eleanor, he began, closing the door behind him. Im sorry to intrude, but we need to talk.
What about? I asked, voice a little too high.
He glanced around, ensuring we were alone, then sat opposite me.
Its about Simon, he said quietly. And about you.
Were divorced, I replied bluntly. If you have business with him, speak directly to him.
Its not about the divorce, Andrew continued. Its much more serious.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. Did you get my note? He knows. Run?
A chill ran down my spine. Your note? What does it mean?
Andrews eyes flicked to the door. It means Simon isnt who he pretends to be. Hes involved in a fraud scheme run by Eastern Investments, a company thats been swindling pensioners out of their savings. The police are onto them, but they need evidence. Simons part of it, and now he knows Im digging.
He produced his phone, showing a grainy photo of Simon speaking with a man in front of a drab, grey office building. That was taken three days ago. Thats the head office of Eastern Investments.
My mind raced. Simon worked at a car dealership, not at a financial firm.
This cant be true, I said, trying to stay calm. Simon would never
Andrew interrupted, Im telling you what Ive seen. He was already involved in a similar scam in Manchester five years ago, escaped, changed his name, and moved here. He got close to you to stay under the radar.
My world spun. The man I had lived with, cooked for on weekends, and shared vinyl records with, now painted as a conartist.
Why run? I asked, voice trembling. What am I supposed to do?
Because hes dangerous, Andrew replied solemnly. Since I started asking questions, Ive been followed. The person who tried to expose them before me died in a car accident. You need to leave, at least temporarily, while the investigation wraps up.
I felt a surge of panic. Where would I go?
My mother lives in a small town three hundred miles away, in York. You could stay with her.
The proposition felt both absurd and terrifying. I glanced at my coat pocket, where the crumpled note still lay.
Give me a day, I said. Ill speak to Angela.
Andrew nodded and left. I sat with my hands trembling, the weight of the situation pressing down.
I approached Angelas office, trying to appear composed. I need a few days off for family reasons, I said.
She looked at me, concern darkening her eyes. Is everything alright? You look pale.
My mothers ill, I lied. I need to be with her.
She sighed, Of course, take the time you need. The author event will manage without you.
I packed a small bagpassport, a few pounds, some clothesand called my mother. Mum, Im on the train now, heading to York.
Is everything okay? she asked, worry evident.
Just tired, I replied, not wanting to alarm her.
As I passed the bookshelf in my flat, a framed photograph caught my eye: Simon and I at a sunny seaside, grinning, carefree. I lifted it, studying his face, wondering how someone could hide such a dark side.
A sudden knock jolted me. Through the peephole I saw Simon standing there, his expression calm yet earnest.
Eleanor, I know youre home, he said. We need to talk about Andrew.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Hes twisted the story. Im not involved with Eastern Investments. Im undercover, working with the police to bring them down. Andrew is one of the founders. Hes trying to use you to flush me out.
My mind reeled. The second noteHe knows. Runnow seemed to have a different author.
Simon placed a folded piece of paper on the table. It read: Eleanor, Im working undercover. Andrew is a suspect. Dont trust him. Call me, Ill explain everything. Simon.
I stared at the two notes, heart pounding. Which side was truth?
I dialed the number of an old friend, Marina, who works at the Crown Prosecution Service. Marina, I need your help. Can you look into a person? I whispered.
She agreed to meet at a nearby café. An hour later, over cold coffee, she listened without interrupting, then tapped her finger on the mug. I can investigate both Simon and Andrew. Itll take time, but well get to the bottom of it.
What should I do now? I asked.
Go to your mothers. Itll be safer until we sort this out.
I boarded the train heading east, watching the city lights recede. The thought of becoming a heroine in a reallife detective story felt absurd, yet here I was, caught between two men whose lives I thought I knew.
Midjourney, Marina called. Simon is indeed undercover. Andrew is a cofounder of Eastern Investments. He tried to manipulate you, hoping youd unwittingly expose Simon.
Relief and betrayal swirled together. I thanked her and prepared to return.
At the next station, I stepped off the train, and Simon waited for me on the platform, his eyes full of genuine concern.
Thank goodness youre safe, he said. I couldnt tell you before; it was a secret operation. Leaving was the only way to protect you.
I cant just forget what happened, I replied, voice low. You broke my heart.
He looked remorseful. Im sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.
We stood on the bustling station, two strangers bound by a tangled past, unsure how to move forward.
Lets go home, I said finally. Well talk there.
On the way back, Simon recounted everything: how he infiltrated the fraud ring, the risks he faced, and why he had to distance himself.
At the doorway of my flat, I paused. I wasnt sure what the future held, but I realised I finally had a choiceto stay stuck in fear or to step forward with eyes open.
Lesson learned:When shadows whisper warnings, seek the source rather than running blindly, for truth often lies hidden beneath layers of deception.
