The Weight Of The Past

Celeste had always known that history left its marks—not just on buildings, but on people. And now, standing in the Fairmont Theater with Evelyn Harland's locket in her hand and James Holloway's journal tucked under her arm, she felt the weight of history pressing down on her more than ever.

She had proof now. Proof that Evelyn had feared for her life. Proof that Nathaniel Wren had been there the night of the fire.

But would it be enough?

Adrian entered the mezzanine, his expression unreadable. "So," he said, crossing his arms, "what's next?"

Celeste turned the locket over in her fingers. "We go public."

Adrian exhaled sharply. "That's a big leap, Celeste."

She met his gaze. "Evelyn was murdered. We have to do something."

He hesitated. "We have a journal. An old fire report. A locket with a scratched-in plea. It's compelling, but it's not exactly a smoking gun."

Celeste's frustration flared. "Nathaniel Wren was there that night. Holloway saw him leave before the fire. You don't think that's suspicious?"

Adrian ran a hand through his hair. "Of course it is. But Wren's been dead for decades. Who do we hold accountable now?"

Celeste swallowed hard. She knew he had a point. But Evelyn's story deserved to be heard.

"Even if no one can be punished for it," she said quietly, "the truth still matters."

Adrian studied her, his expression softening. "You're not wrong." He sighed. "So how do we do this?"

Celeste's mind was already racing. "We start with the Bellingham Gazette. The theatre's renovation has been making news already. If we give them this story, they'll print it."

Adrian nodded. "Alright. Let's do it."

The Gazette's offices smelled of ink and coffee. Celeste sat stiffly in the editor's office, James Holloway's journal on the desk between them.

The editor, a woman in her fifties named Marianne Porter, adjusted her glasses as she scanned the journal.

When she finally looked up, her expression was unreadable. "This is… quite a story."

Celeste nodded. "We want to bring the truth to light."

Marianne tapped her fingers against the desk. "You realize this could stir up controversy? The Wren family is still prominent in this city."

Celeste's stomach tightened. She had forgotten that detail. Nathaniel Wren might be dead, but his descendants were still deeply embedded in Port Bellingham's business and politics.

Adrian leaned forward. "We're not accusing the family. We're telling the story of a woman who never got justice."

Marianne studied them for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded. "I'll run it."

Celeste let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Marianne leaned back. "This could bring attention to the Fairmont, you know. Public interest, historical significance. You might have people rallying to preserve more of it."

Celeste glanced at Adrian, half-expecting to see his usual reluctance at anything that might slow his project.

But instead, he just gave a small, resigned smile. "Guess we'll have to make sure we do the place justice, then."

Celeste felt a strange warmth at that. Maybe Adrian Hawthorne wasn't just a ruthless developer after all.

The article came out two days later.

"THE FAIRONT THEATER MYSTERY: DID A FIRE COVER UP MURDER?"

Celeste's hands trembled as she held the newspaper, reading Marianne's carefully written article. It laid out the timeline of events, the evidence they had found, and Holloway's long-ignored testimony.

By noon, the phones at the Gazette were ringing off the hook.

Some people were outraged that the story was being dragged back into the light. Others were fascinated.

And then—

Celeste's phone rang.

She glanced at the unknown number before answering. "Hello?"

A raspy voice came through the line. "You shouldn't have dug this up."

Celeste froze.

The voice was low, rough with age—but there was something unmistakably threatening in the tone.

She gripped the phone tighter. "Who is this?"

A short pause. Then:

"Leave the past buried."

The line went dead.

Celeste stood there, pulse-pounding, staring at her phone.

Adrian, who had been watching her, frowned. "What's wrong?"

She swallowed. "Someone just called me. They're not happy about the story."

Adrian's expression darkened. "What did they say?"

Celeste repeated the words, and Adrian swore under his breath.

"You think it was one of Wren's relatives?" he asked.

Celeste shivered. "Maybe. Or maybe someone else who doesn't want the truth out."

Adrian grabbed his coat. "Let's go."

She blinked. "Go where?"

He gave her a grim look. "If someone's trying to scare you off, that means we're close to something. And I want to know what."

They went back to City Hall, this time looking for old property records.

Adrian worked his usual charm on Sylvia, the records clerk, and soon enough, they were seated in the archives room with stacks of old documents.

Celeste flipped through a file marked Fairmont Theater – Ownership History.

She scanned the names.

Then—

Her breath caught.

"Nathaniel Wren owned the Fairmont," she whispered.

Adrian leaned in. "Wait—what?"

She pointed at the document. "He bought it in 1947. A year before the fire."

Adrian's jaw tightened. "If he owned the building… and Evelyn was hiding there—"

Celeste's mind raced. "What if she had something on him? What if she knew something that could have ruined him?"

Adrian exhaled. "And he made sure she never talked."

Celeste clenched her fists. "We need to find out what Evelyn knew."

Adrian nodded. "And if someone's still trying to keep this buried… we need to be careful."

Celeste shivered.

Because for the first time since she started this, she wasn't just chasing a ghost.

She was chasing a secret that someone—after all these years—was still desperate to keep hidden.