Shadows In The Fire

The realization sat heavy in Celeste's chest, a knot of unease she couldn't untangle.

Nathaniel Wren.

Evelyn had feared him. Had reported him. And then, mere days later, she had died in a fire with no clear cause.

Coincidence?

Celeste didn't believe in them anymore.

She turned to Adrian, her pulse quickening. "We have to find out more about him."

Adrian crossed his arms, jaw tight. "If he was responsible for what happened to Evelyn, we're not just dealing with a ghost story anymore."

Celeste met his gaze, her own thoughts whirling. "I don't think we ever were."

They dug into every record they could find.

Nathaniel Wren had lived a long and privileged life, dying in 1986 at the age of seventy. No criminal charges had ever been brought against him. His name appeared in business articles, charity event rosters, and the occasional mention in local politics.

But something was chilling about the way his past had been scrubbed clean.

Celeste frowned at the lack of substantial records on his personal life. "It's like he was untouchable."

Adrian scoffed. "Guys like him usually are."

It made her stomach turn. If Nathaniel had been the one to harm Evelyn, had he ever faced any consequences? Or had he simply gone on living, while she had been reduced to whispers and forgotten news clippings?

She couldn't let that be the end of it.

Not when Evelyn still lingered.

Not when the Fairmont still carried the weight of her unfinished story.

That night, Celeste found herself back at the Fairmont, standing in the darkened mezzanine.

She wasn't sure what she expected—answers, maybe. A sign.

Instead, she got a feeling.

The air thickened around her, the weight of something unseen pressing against her skin. The chandeliers flickered, just for a moment. A shiver ran down her spine.

And then—

A whisper.

Faint. So soft she almost missed it.

"He came for me."

Celeste's breath caught.

The voice wasn't her own.

She turned sharply, her heart hammering. The theatre was silent, empty.

But she wasn't alone.

She could feel it.

"Evelyn?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing.

But she knew.

Evelyn was still here.

And she was trying to tell her something.

Celeste spent the next morning tracking down the last person who might have answers.

Nathaniel Wren's grandson.

Graham Wren was in his sixties now, living in a sprawling estate outside Port Bellingham. It had taken a few calls to convince him to meet, but curiosity had won out.

She and Adrian arrived at his estate just before noon.

Graham was tall, silver-haired, with the kind of polished presence that spoke of old money. He led them to a sitting room lined with books and expensive-looking art, then regarded them with polite interest.

"My assistant said you're working on the Fairmont's restoration?" he asked.

Celeste nodded. "Yes, but we're also researching its history."

Graham gave a slow nod. "I see."

She hesitated, then met his gaze. "We came across records about Evelyn Harland."

For the first time, his expression flickered. Not a surprise—something else. Something unreadable.

"She died in the fire," he said carefully. "A tragic accident."

Celeste's stomach twisted. "Do you know anything about her relationship with your grandfather?"

Graham didn't move, didn't blink. But something in the air shifted.

"I know he courted her," he said finally. "He was fond of her."

Fond.

It was the wrong word.

The records, the whispers, Evelyn's own journal—none of it had spoken of fondness.

Celeste studied him, searching for cracks in his carefully composed expression. "Evelyn reported him to the police," she said. "Days before she died."

Graham exhaled slowly, folding his hands together. "I was just a child when she died. My grandfather never spoke of her."

A lie.

Celeste felt it in her bones.

She leaned forward. "Mr. Wren, I think Evelyn was afraid of him. And I think she was hiding in the Fairmont that night."

Graham's jaw tightened.

Adrian, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke. His voice was measured and calm. "You know something, don't you?"

Graham hesitated.

Then, finally, he sighed.

"I can't tell you what happened that night," he said. "But I can tell you this—my grandfather always got what he wanted."

Celeste's blood ran cold.

"And Evelyn?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Graham's expression darkened.

"She was the one thing he didn't."

The pieces were falling into place, but Celeste still didn't have the full picture.

Evelyn had rejected Nathaniel. She had reported him. She had gone to the Fairmont that night, not to meet James—but to escape something.

And then she died.

Celeste stood in the theatre's lobby, staring up at the grand, peeling ceiling.

Evelyn was still here.

Still waiting.

And Celeste had the feeling that she wouldn't find peace until the truth was finally uncovered.

Adrian stepped beside her. "What now?"

Celeste inhaled deeply. "Now? We find out what really happened that night."

Adrian smirked. "That means we're breaking into old crime scene reports?"

Celeste gave him a wry look. "Not unless we have to."

Adrian chuckled. "That's not a no."

She didn't answer, because she wasn't sure what lines she'd be willing to cross.

All she knew was that Evelyn had been afraid.

And Celeste wasn't leaving until she knew why.