Lies, Secret, and a Ghost's Regret

Chapter Six: Lies, Secrets, and a Ghost's Regret

Celeste couldn't take her eyes off the letter.

Evelyn had written it. Her words, her choice. She had left James Barrington—left him before he could leave her.

Then why had she been at the Fairmont that night?

She looked up at Margaret, who watched her with quiet patience. Adrian, standing beside Celeste, let out a slow breath.

"This changes everything," he muttered.

Celeste nodded. Evelyn wasn't waiting for James. She had already walked away.

Then what—or who—had she been waiting for?

Margaret sighed, folding her hands in her lap. "I take it you didn't come here expecting to find this."

Celeste swallowed. "No. We thought Evelyn had been waiting for James that night, but if she left him…" She trailed off.

Margaret studied the telegram as if seeing it for the first time. "My father never talked about her. Not really. When I was a teenager, I found this letter in an old box in the attic. I asked him about her, but he just said she was someone he once loved, and that she was gone."

Celeste's grip tightened on the fragile paper.

Gone.

The word meant so much more than James had probably admitted.

Margaret hesitated. "I always wondered about her. He would get this look sometimes—like he was remembering something painful. My mother never pushed. I think she knew Evelyn was a part of him that would never leave."

Celeste's chest ached at the thought.

She glanced at Adrian, whose usual smirk had been replaced by quiet contemplation. "So what now?" he asked.

Celeste carefully refolded the letter, her mind racing. "We find out what Evelyn was really doing at the Fairmont that night."

Margaret tapped a finger against the table, her expression thoughtful. "You said you're restoring the theatre. Have you come across anything of hers?"

Celeste hesitated. The journal.

But something about it made her reluctant to share—at least, not yet.

Instead, she nodded. "A few things."

Margaret studied her. "If you find anything else, I'd like to know."

Celeste met her gaze, sensing the weight of decades of unanswered questions. "I promise."

They drove back in near silence, the rain pattering against the windshield.

Adrian finally broke the quiet. "So if Evelyn wasn't waiting for James, then who?"

Celeste stared out the window, watching the Pacific mist curl through the trees. "I don't know. But I think she regretted something."

Adrian shot her a glance. "You sound pretty sure."

She exhaled. "That journal… it wasn't just about waiting. It was about fear. She wrote like someone afraid of what would happen if she left. And then she never did."

Adrian gripped the steering wheel. "So what are you thinking? That she was running from something?"

Celeste's fingers traced the edges of the telegram in her lap. "Maybe."

Or maybe she had been running toward something.

She thought about the cold that had wrapped around her in the mezzanine. The flickering lights.

The whispering.

Evelyn's story wasn't finished. And Celeste had the growing sense that she wouldn't be allowed to stop searching until she uncovered the truth.

Back at the Fairmont, Celeste wasted no time. She set up in the small office where she and Adrian had left the rest of the research, spreading out old articles, floor plans, and records.

Adrian leaned against the desk, watching her work. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to drag me into another late-night ghost hunt."

Celeste rolled her eyes. "It's not a ghost hunt. It's research."

Adrian smirked. "Uh-huh."

She ignored him, flipping through a copy of the Fairmont's old seating charts. If Evelyn hadn't been waiting for James, then where had she been in the theatre that night?

A note in her journal had mentioned sitting in the mezzanine. But why?

She turned to the page where Evelyn had written about her fear. She'll come for me.

Celeste's stomach twisted.

Who was she?

Adrian tapped the page. "That still bothering you?"

"Of course it is. It's the only real clue we have."

Adrian pushed away from the desk, thoughtful. "What if it wasn't a person?"

Celeste frowned. "What do you mean?"

He crossed his arms. "I mean, maybe Evelyn wasn't talking about some woman coming to find her. Maybe she meant something else. Like… an expectation. A promise. Something she was trying to avoid."

Celeste stared at him. "Like an arranged marriage?"

"Or a family obligation." Adrian shrugged. "Port Bellingham wasn't exactly progressive back in the forties. If she left James, maybe there was someone else in the picture—someone she had to marry."

Celeste's pulse quickened. "And maybe she refused."

Adrian nodded. "And if she was running from that, maybe that's why she ended up at the Fairmont."

Celeste grabbed her laptop and pulled up a list of notable families in Port Bellingham from the 1940s. James Barrington had come from wealth—but he wasn't the only one.

Her eyes scanned the list until—

She froze.

"Celeste?"

She barely heard Adrian.

Her gaze locked onto a name.

Nathaniel Wren.

She recognized it.

Not from history books.

From Evelyn's journal.

She flipped back through the pages, heart pounding. There—tucked between passages about regret and longing—was a single line she had overlooked before.

I won't be Nathaniel's prize. I won't let them decide my fate.

Celeste looked at Adrian, her mouth dry. "I think we just found the man she was running from."

Nathaniel Wren had been a name of quiet power in Port Bellingham. His family owned one of the largest shipping enterprises on the coast, and he had been known for his business acumen—and his ambition.

But what caught Celeste's attention wasn't his professional history.

It was the police reports.

She found them buried in old city records—small, almost forgettable mentions of disturbances. Accusations of coercion.

And one report from 1948 sent a chill down her spine.

Incident Report, April 30, 1948

Complainant: Evelyn Harland

Allegation: Unwanted advances, harassment

Respondent: Nathaniel Wren

Celeste's blood ran cold.

The date was only days before the fire.

She read through the report with growing dread. Evelyn had reported Wren to the police, claiming he had been pressuring her into a relationship she didn't want. But there had been no official charges.

And then, less than a week later, she had died.

Adrian's face darkened as he read over her shoulder. "That's not a coincidence."

Celeste's throat was dry. "No. It's not."

Nathaniel Wren had wanted Evelyn. She had refused him. And then she had died in a fire that had never been fully explained.

Adrian exhaled sharply. "You think he had something to do with it?"

Celeste wasn't sure.

But she knew one thing.

Evelyn hadn't been waiting for James Barrington.

She had been hiding.

And whatever had happened that night, she had died still believing that someone was coming for her.

Celeste stared at the faded ink of Evelyn's final journal entry.

And for the first time, she truly understood what the woman had meant.

She'll come for me.

Not just fear.

Not just regret.

A warning.