I found a folded piece of paper tucked in the top drawer of my desk: He knows. Run.
Blythe Whitaker, could you have a look at the catalogue cards in the third drawer? It seems the students have mixed everything up again, said our library manager, Angela Perkins, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. And please, dont stay late tonight. Youve been putting in far too many hours lately.
Will do, Angela, Blythe replied, barely lifting her eyes from the screen. Just finishing the electronic inventory of the new arrivals.
Angela shook her head and slipped out of the cataloguing department, the click of her heels echoing on the creaking oak floor. Our town library occupies the former grammar school high ceilings, ornate cornices, and squeaky floorboards that announce a visitor long before they appear at the desk.
Blythe had indeed been staying late for the past three weeks, but not because she was a workhorse. At home there was no one waiting since Simon left, taking not only his belongings but also the warmth that had filled their modest flat. Now the only sound was the tick of the old mantel clock shed inherited from her grandmother.
The library, however, was always buzzing. Blythe loved the smell of books, the rustle of pages, even the dust that stubbornly settled on the top shelves despite the diligent sweeping of cleaning lady Aunt Clara. Here she felt useful and in her element.
Blythe, dont forget weve got a writer coming tomorrow, called Olivia, the young librarian from the membership desk, peeking through the doorway. We need the small hall set up and the posters printed.
Ive got the posters ready, theyre in the top drawer of my desk. Grab them yourself, I still have to finish the catalogue.
Olivia nodded, walked over to the massive oak table where Blythe was working, slid out the top drawer and pulled out a folder of posters.
Whats this? she asked, pulling a loose sheet from the folder.
What? Blythe turned to her.
It looks like a note. Must have fallen out of the folder.
Olivia handed her a folded schoolpaper sheet. Blythe unfolded it and read three words scrawled in a hurried hand: He knows. Run.
Her heart missed a beat. Her first thought was that it was a joke, but deep down she sensed it wasnt. She carefully refolded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her cardigan.
Just nonsense, she said, trying to keep her voice flat. Probably a student dropped it. Theyre always passing notes around here.
Olivia shrugged. Alright, Ill go hang the posters.
When the door shut behind Olivia, Blythe pulled the note out again. He knows. Run. Who knew? What for? And who had written it?
The handwriting was familiar, yet she couldnt place it. It didnt match any colleagues script. Could it be Simons? But why would he leave such a warning? Their split had been amicable; he simply said he no longer felt the same and that they should remain friendsa bland, predictable ending, like something out of a cheap romance novel.
Blythe tried to focus on her work, but the note kept looping in her mind. By the end of the day she finally finished the catalogue, handed the keys to the security guard, and stepped out into a damp October evening. A fine drizzle fell, and the street lamps glowed like yellow smudges in the mist.
It was a fifteenminute walk home. Usually she enjoyed the route past the old park, through the cosy courtyard with its swing set where children played by day. Tonight every shadow felt threatening, every sound made her jump. He knows. Run. Whom should she be running from?
She entered the flat block, breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the quiet, welllit lobby. On the third floor she unlocked her door to the familiar stillness, the faint scent of cinnamon from the sachet shed hung by the entrance to mask Simons absence.
She slipped off her coat, hung it on the hook, and drifted into the kitchen. She set the kettle on, rummaged out yesterdays salad from the fridge. She wasnt hungry, but she needed something to keep her mind occupied.
The phone rang, and her mothers name flashed on the screen.
Hey, Mum, she answered, keeping her voice steady.
Blythe, love, how are you? her mothers voice trembled with worry. Ive been feeling on edge all day. Everything alright?
Its fine, just tired from work, Blythe lied. Her mother was already fretting over the breakup, and she didnt need more reasons to panic.
Maybe you could come over for the weekend? Ill bake a pie, you could relax a bit
Maybe, Mum. Lets chat on Friday, okay?
After the call Blythe felt even lonelier. The tea had gone cold, and she didnt want to watch TV. She unfolded the note again, staring at the three words.
A knock at the door startled her. It was tenoclockwho could be calling at that hour? She tiptoed to the peephole. On the landing stood Michael Stevens, the elderly neighbour from upstairs.
Whos there? she called, just in case.
Its me, Michael Stevens. Open up, Blythe.
She opened the door but left the chain on.
Sorry for the late visit, he said, a little embarrassed. My pipes leaking. Does any water come your way?
No, its dry here, she replied, relieved. Thanks for checking.
Its all right. Ive called a plumber, theyll be here tomorrow.
When Michael left, Blythe realised how foolish shed been, letting a simple note whirl her into panic. Probably a prank by the students, her imagination running wild after all those detective novels shed been devouring lately.
She tried to calm herself, but sleep wouldnt come. She lay there, listening to every creak, every distant car. The usual night sounds of the city now seemed ominous.
Morning found her exhausted. After a quick breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, she headed back to the library. The day ahead was packed: the writers talk, the hall setup, and finishing the new acquisitions.
The library was already buzzing. Angela was issuing orders, Olivia was arranging chairs in the small hall, and Aunt Clara was scrubbing the floors with a sour look.
Blythe, a man asked for you earlier, Aunt Clara called as Blythe passed by. Tall bloke, dark coat. I told him you werent back yet.
A man? Blythe halted. Did he give his name?
Nope. Said hed come back later.
The words He knows. Run flashed through her mind again. Who was this stranger, and what did he want? She tried to steady herself.
She settled at her computer, but a knock sounded on the door half an hour later.
Come in, she called without looking up.
The door opened to reveal a tall man in a dark coat. Blythes breath caught. It was Andrew, a former classmate of Simons. Theyd only met a handful of times over the years.
Hello, Blythe, he said, closing the door behind him. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.
What about? she asked, her voice a little high.
Andrew looked around as if checking for ears, then sat opposite her.
This is about Simon, he said quietly. And about you.
We split, Blythe replied bluntly. If you want something from him, go straight to him.
Its not about the breakup. Its much bigger.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
Did you get my note?
Blythe felt a chill run down her spine.
Your note? He knows. Run? What does that mean?
Andrew glanced nervously at the door.
It means Simon isnt who he says he is. And he knows Ive uncovered it. He probably thinks youre onto him too.
What are you talking about? Blythe asked, bewildered.
Its about the Eastgate Investments scheme, Andrew pulled out his phone and showed a photo of Simon talking to a man by a drab grey building. That was taken three days ago. Do you know where that is?
Blythe shook her head.
Its the office of Eastgate Investments, the firm that recently made headlines for swindling hundreds of pensioners with fake highinterest accounts. They vanished with the money.
And Simon? Blythe asked, still trying to process.
He works at a car dealership, right? Andrew said. Thats just a cover. Hes actually one of the organizers.
Blythe stared at him, disbelief flooding her. No way. Simon isnt like that. Hed never
I didnt want to believe it either, Andrew interrupted. We grew up together. But when I saw him there and started digging, the pieces fell into place. Five years ago he was involved in a similar scam up north, got away, changed his name, moved here, and met you.
The room seemed to spin. The man who had cooked weekend meals and collected vinyl records could be a fraud preying on the elderly?
Why did you write run? she asked, trying to collect her thoughts.
Because hes dangerous, Andrew said, his eyes serious. Since I started asking questions, Ive been watched. The person who tried to expose them before me ended up in a car accident.
Blythe remembered the uneasy feeling that night, the sense of being watched. Was it paranoia or real surveillance?
What should I do? she asked, panic rising.
Get out of town for a while, at least until it settles down. Do you have somewhere to go?
She thought of her mother, who lived in a small market town three hundred miles away.
Yes, I do.
Then pack a bag and leave today. Ill contact you when its safe to return.
When Andrew left, Blythe sat staring at the empty desk, the world feeling like a detective novel shed once loved. She walked to Angelas office.
I need to take a few days off for family reasons. Can I have a short leave?
Angela looked at her, concern flashing across her face.
Is everything all right? You look pale.
My mothers ill, Blythe said. I need to be with her.
Of course, go. Well manage the writers event without you.
At home Blythe quickly packed the essentials: passport, a few pounds, some clothes. She called her mother.
Mum, Im on the evening train to the East tomorrow.
Is something wrong? her mothers voice trembled.
No, just missed you.
She passed the bookcase and stopped at a framed photographher and Simon on a sunny beach, smiling, tanned. She stared at his face, trying to reconcile the man in the picture with the criminal Andrew described.
A knock at the door made her jump. She crept to the peephole. On the landing stood Simon himself.
Her heart thumped in her throat. Blythe, I know youre home, his voice was calm, a touch weary. Please open the door, we need to talk.
She stayed silent, terrified of breathing.
Its about Andrew, Simon continued. He was here today, right? Talking about Eastgate Investments and me?
How does he know? she whispered, mind racing.
Blythe, listen, Andrew got it wrong. Im not part of any scheme. Im working undercover with the police. Andrews one of the suspects trying to muddy the waters. Dont trust him.
She remained still, considering a desperate escape through the balcony, but she lived on the third floor. Calling the police seemed absurd when a former partner stood at her door.
Fine, Simon said after a pause. Ill leave a note under the door. Read it and call me.
He stepped back, his footsteps echoing down the stairs. Blythe waited, then carefully opened the door just enough to pick up the paper on the floor.
The note read: Blythe, Im an undercover officer. Im investigating Eastgate Investments with the police. Andrew is a suspect trying to cover his tracks. Dont believe him. Call me, Ill explain. Simon.
She read it twice. Who to trust? Andrew, a nearstranger, or Simon, the man shed lived with for four years? She sat on the sofa, both notes clutched in her handsHe knows. Run and Dont believe him. Both felt true and false at once.
She dialed the number of an old friend, Martha, who worked in the Crown Prosecution Service.
Martha, sorry to bother you, Blythe began. I need your help. Can you look into a person for me? Its important.
Whats happened? Marthas voice was tense.
Its a long story. Can we meet?
An hour later they were in a tiny café two streets from Blythes flat. Martha listened without interruption, then stared at her coffee cup, tapping a finger.
I can check both Simon and Andrew. Itll take some time, but well find out the truth.
What do I do now? Blythe asked.
Go to your mothers. Itll be safer there until we sort this out.
That evening she boarded the eastbound train, watching the city lights fade behind her. She thought how yesterday shed been an ordinary librarian grieving a lost love, and today she was caught up in a reallife thriller.
Her phone rang as the train gathered speed.
Blythe, Ive found something, Martha said, voice tight. Simon really is an undercover officer. Hes been working with the economic crime unit. And Andrew? Hes one of the founders of Eastgate Investments.
A cold shiver ran down Blythes spine. Andrew had tried to use her to take Simon out of the picture.
What now? she asked.
Come back, Martha advised. Simons looking for you. He needs to know youre safe.
Blythe jumped off at the next station and caught the train back. On the platform she saw Simon waiting, looking gaunt but relieved.
Thank God youre alright, he said, hugging her.
Why didnt you tell me? she asked, hurt.
I couldnt. It was a secret operation. Any leak could have blown the whole thing up. When we got close, it became too dangerous, so I walked away to protect you.
Protect? she laughed bitterly. You broke my heart!
Im sorry, he said, genuine pain in his eyes. I had no other way.
They stood in the noisy station, two people divided by months of mistrust and lies.
I dont know if I can ever trust you again, Blythe admitted. Theres been too much deception.
I understand, Simon replied. But I want to make things right, if youll let me.
She looked at the man she thought she knew best and realised she still knew so little about him. Perhaps now, with all the cards on the table, they could start anew.
Lets go home, she said. Well talk there.
On the train back, Simon explained everything: how he infiltrated Eastgate, how he met Andrew and the other culprits, why he had to disappear, and how hed been trying to keep her safe all along.
What now? Blythe asked. Is the operation finished?
Almost, Simon answered. We just need to lock down a few more suspects. Andrews already in custody.
Back at her flat, she paused at the doorway.
I dont know what the future holds, she said. I need time to process all this.
I get that, Simon said, a sad smile playing on his lips. Take all the time you need. Ill be waiting.
He left, and she stepped inside. On the kitchen table lay the two notes: He knows. Run and Dont believe him. Both were truths and lies tangled together. Life was far messier than the detective novels she loved.
She walked to the windowShe took a steady breath, slipped the notes into a drawer, and stepped out onto the street, ready to rebuild her life on her own terms.
