20October2025
I found a folded note tucked in the top drawer of my desk: He knows. Run. It was the first odd thing of the day.
MsWalters, could you check the catalogue cards in drawer three? It seems the students have mixed everything up again, said the library director, Angela Parker, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. And please dont stay too late tonight. Youve been working far too much lately.
Right, Angela, Ill get on it, I replied, barely looking up from the screen. Just need to finish the electronic inventory of the new acquisitions.
Angela gave a small shake of her head and left the cataloguing department, her heels clicking against the aged parquet. Our branch sits in the former grammar school on High Streethigh ceilings, ornate cornices, and creaking floorboards that announce a visitor long before they appear.
I have indeed been burning the midnight oil for the past three weeks, but not because Im a workaholic. Since Stephen left, the flat has been empty except for the ticking of my grandmothers old mantel clock. The silence is broken only by its steady beat, a reminder that someone once filled these rooms with warmth.
The library, on the other hand, is alive with the scent of paper, the rustle of pages, and the dust that always settles on the top shelves despite Aunt Claras diligent sweeping. Here I feel useful, I feel anchored.
Dont forget, we have a writer coming in tomorrow, called Olivia, the young librarian from the membership desk, popping her head in. We need the small hall set up and the posters printed.
Ive got the posters ready, theyre in the top drawer of my desk, I said, smiling. You can take them, I still have cataloguing to finish.
Olivia nodded, slid the heavy oak desk aside, and pulled out the drawer. She fished out a folder of posters and, as she did, a loose sheet fell into her hand.
Whats that? she asked, holding up the crumpled paper.
I turned to look.
It looks like a note, probably fell out of the folder.
She handed it to me. When I unfolded it, three words were scrawled in a hurried hand: He knows. Run.
My heart missed a beat. My first thought was that someone was playing a prank, but deep down I sensed something else. I slipped the note into the pocket of my cardigan and tried to sound nonchalant.
Its probably just a students doodle, I said, forcing a casual tone. Someone must have dropped it.
Olivia shrugged. Alright, Ill go hang the posters.
When the door closed behind her, I reread the line. Who knew? What was it about? And who had written it?
The handwriting was familiar, yet I couldnt place it. It wasnt any of my colleagues, and it certainly wasnt Stephensour split was amicable, nothing dramatic, just a quiet agreement to stay friends.
I tried to focus on the catalogue, but the note kept buzzing in my mind. By evening I finally finished the inventory, handed my key to the night guard, and stepped out into a damp October dusk. A light drizzle softened the street lamps, turning them into yellow halos in the fog.
The walk home was a fifteenminute stroll through the old park, past the childrens swing set and the tidy courtyard that usually brings me peace. Tonight every shadow felt threatening, every rustle made me jump. He knows. Run. Who am I supposed to run from?
I entered the flat on the third floor, relieved to find the hallway quiet and warmly lit. Inside my flat, everything was as it always had been: the faint scent of cinnamon from the sachet I keep by the door, the silence that now felt almost comforting.
I brewed a cup of tea, retrieved yesterdays leftover salad, and tried to occupy myself. The phone rang, flashing my mothers name on the screen.
Hi, Mum, I said, keeping my voice steady.
Emma, love, how are you? Her voice trembled with worry. Ive been feeling uneasy all day. Is everything alright with you?
Its fine, just tired from work, I lied. Shed been fretting over my breakup already; a mysterious note would only add to her anxiety. Maybe you could have me over for the weekend? Ill bring a pie.
Maybe, dear. Lets chat on Friday, okay?
After hanging up I felt an even deeper loneliness. The tea went cold, and I stared again at the three words, feeling the chill creep up my spine.
A knock at the door startled me. It was ten past eightwho could be visiting at this hour? I tiptoed to the peephole and saw Michael Stevens, the elderly neighbour from upstairs.
Whos there? I called, just in case.
Its me, Michael. Open up, love.
I opened the door but didnt unfasten the chain.
Sorry for the late visit, he said shyly. My pipe is leaking. Is any water getting into your flat?
No, its dry here, I replied, relieved. Thanks for checking.
He promised a plumber would come tomorrow. As he left, I felt foolish, worrying over a note that was probably just a prank from some student. I tried to convince myself that my imagination was running wild after all the crime novels Ive been devouring lately.
I lay down, but sleep eluded me. Every creak of the old building sounded ominous, the rain pattering against the window like an unwelcome reminder.
The next morning I rushed through breakfast, grabbed a strong coffee, and headed back to work. Today was busy: the writers arrival, setting up the hall, and processing more new books.
The library hummed with activity. Angela was barking orders, Olivia was arranging chairs, and Aunt Clara was scrubbing the floor with a disgruntled sigh.
MsWalters, a tall man in a dark coat asked for you earlier, Aunt Clara whispered as I passed her. He said hed come back later.
I paused. A man? Did he say his name?
No, just that hed return.
The phrase He knows. Run flashed through my mind again. Who was this stranger? A reader? A police officer? My imagination spiraled.
Half an hour later, a knock sounded at my door. I called out, Come in, without looking away from my screen.
A tall man in a dark coat stepped inside. My breath caught. It was Andrew, a former schoolmate of Stephens. Wed only met a handful of times over the years, and I barely remembered him.
Hello, Nina, he said, closing the door behind him. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.
What about? I asked, my voice higher than I intended.
He looked around as if checking that no one else was listening, then took a seat opposite me.
Its about Stephen, he began quietly. And about you.
We split, I replied bluntly. If you have business with him, go straight to him.
Its not about the breakup, he said, leaning forward. Its far more serious.
He pulled out his phone and showed me a photograph: Stephen standing with an unknown man in front of a drab grey building.
That was taken three days ago. Do you recognize the place? he asked.
Its the office of Eastbrook Investments, I said, remembering the headlines about a scheme that had duped dozens of retirees with bogus highinterest accounts.
How does Stephen fit into that? I asked, my stomach tightening.
He works at a car dealership, right? Thats a cover, Andrew replied, scrolling to another picture. Hes actually one of the organizers.
My mind whirled. The Stephen I knew was a quiet guy who loved cooking on weekends and collecting vinyl records, not a fraud.
Why did you write Run? I demanded, feeling dizzy.
Hes dangerous, Andrews eyes were serious. After I started digging, I was being watched. Someone in the operation was killed in what they called an accident.
The room seemed to spin. I remembered feeling watched that nightwas it paranoia or real surveillance?
What should I do? I asked, panic rising.
Leave town, even if only temporarily, he said. Do you have somewhere to go?
I thought of my mother, who lives in a small market town about two hours away.
Yes, I can go.
He nodded. Pack a bag and leave tonight. Ill contact you when its safe to return.
When Andrew left, I sat staring at the empty desk, the world feeling like a novel Id never meant to live in. I walked to Angelas office.
Can I have a few days off? Family emergency, I said, forcing a calm tone.
She looked at me, concern in her eyes. Is everything alright? You look pale.
My mother is ill, I lied. I need to be with her.
Of course. Take the time you need. Well manage the writers talk without you.
I quickly gathered the essentialspassport, a few pounds, a change of clothesinto a small bag and called my mother.
Mom, Im coming tonight on the evening train, I said.
Is everything okay? her voice trembled.
Just I miss you, I replied, avoiding the truth.
As I passed the bookcase, I stopped on a framed photograph of Stephen and me on a sunny beach, smiling. I stared at his face, trying to reconcile the man I loved with the criminal hinted at by Andrew.
A sudden knock at the door made my heart pound. I peered through the peephole and saw Stephen standing there, his eyes tired but earnest.
My dear Nina, I know youre home, he said softly. Please open the door. We need to talk.
I froze, unsure whether to open the door or run. The note screamed in my mind: He knows. Run.
He continued, Its about Andrew. He was here earlier, wasnt he? Talking about Eastbrook?
How does he know? I whispered, terrified.
Andrew has got it all wrong, Stephen pleaded. Im undercover. Im working with the police to bring Eastbrook down. Andrews one of the suspects. Hes trying to drag me into his mess. Please, believe me.
He placed another folded paper on the floor. I hesitated, then picked it up. The note read: Nina, Im working undercover. Investigating Eastbrook with the police. Andrew is a suspect. Dont trust him. Call me, Ill explain. Stephen.
Two notes now lay in my hands: one warning, one confession. Both felt true and false at once.
I dialed my old friend Marina, now a prosecutor.
Marina, Im sorry to bother you, I began. I need your help. Can you look into a person for me? Its urgent.
She listened, her tone steady. Give me the details. Ill see what I can do.
We agreed to meet at a small café two streets away. Over cold coffee, she said she could investigate both Stephen and Andrew, though it would take time.
Meanwhile, go to your mothers, she advised. Itll be safer there for now.
That evening I boarded the eastbound train, watching the city lights fade behind me. I felt like a character thrust into a thriller I never signed up for.
Midway, my phone rang. It was Marina.
Stephen is indeed undercover. Hes cooperating with the economic crime unit, she said. Andrew, on the other hand, has ties to Eastbrookhes one of its founders.
The realization hit like a cold gust. Andrew had tried to use me to expose Stephen, while Stephen had been protecting me all along.
What should I do now? I asked, voice shaking.
Return, she urged. Stephens looking for you. Hes concerned.
I alighted at the next station and caught the return train. When I stepped onto the platform, Stephen was waiting, his shoulders slumped, eyes haunted.
Thank goodness youre safe, he breathed.
Why didnt you tell me before? I asked, the first words that had been building for weeks.
I couldnt, he said, gesturing helplessly. It was a secret operation. Any leak could have ruined everything. I left to keep you out of danger.
Protect me? I whispered, a bitter smile forming. You broke my heart.
Im sorry, he said, genuine pain in his eyes. I had no other choice.
We stood on the bustling station, two people separated by months of mistrust and secrets.
I dont know if I can trust you again, I admitted.
I understand, he replied. But I want to make things right, if youll let me.
I looked at the man I thought I knew and realised I still knew very little about him. Perhaps now, with the truth out, we could start anew.
Lets go home, I said. Well talk there.
On the train ride back, Stephen explained everything: how he had infiltrated Eastbrook, how hed met Andrew, and how hed been forced to disappear to keep me safe.
Is the operation over? I asked.
Almost, he said. We just need to arrest the remaining culprits. Andrews already in custody.
When we reached my flat, I paused at the doorway.
Im not sure what the future holds, I said. I need time to process all this.
Ill wait, Stephen said softly. Take as long as you need.
He left, and I stepped inside the quiet apartment. On the kitchen table lay both notes: He knows. Run and Dont trust him. Both were true, both were lies, both had led me to this point.
I walked to the window and watched the city lights flicker on. For the first time in weeks I felt I had a choicesomething far more valuable than any plot twist.
The day may end, but the story is still mine to write.
