The Secrets We Keep

Celeste had always believed that the past could speak. It whispered through the cracked paint on old walls, through yellowed pages in forgotten books. But now, as she sat in the archives room of City Hall, staring at Nathaniel Wren's name on the Fairmont's property records, the past wasn't just whispering.

It was screaming.

Adrian exhaled sharply beside her. "He owned the theatre. That changes everything."

Celeste nodded, her mind racing. "Evelyn wasn't just hiding in the Fairmont. She was hiding in his building." She glanced at the date. "He bought it in 1947. The fire was in 1948. That's… not a coincidence."

Adrian ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. "We need to figure out why he bought it. What was he planning? And what did Evelyn know?"

Celeste flipped through more records, her fingers trembling. There had to be something here. Some clue.

Then—

Her breath hitched.

A loan agreement.

Nathaniel Wren had taken out a massive loan just a few months before the fire. The details were vague, but the sum was staggering.

Adrian leaned over her shoulder. "That's a hell of a lot of money."

Celeste traced the words with her finger. "What was he doing with it?"

Adrian's eyes darkened. "Or who was he paying off?"

A sick feeling settled in Celeste's stomach.

If Wren had taken out this loan just before the fire, and if Evelyn had known something that put her in danger…

Had he set the fire himself?

They left City Hall with copies of the documents and sat in Adrian's car, the weight of their discovery pressing down on them.

Celeste rubbed her temples. "This isn't just about Evelyn anymore. What if the fire wasn't just to get rid of her? What if Wren needed the building to burn?"

Adrian turned the key in the ignition but didn't start driving. "Insurance fraud?"

Celeste nodded. "It would explain the loan. Maybe he needed cash fast. The Fairmont burns down, he collects the insurance payout, and suddenly, his money problems are solved."

Adrian's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "And Evelyn was just… collateral damage."

Celeste's stomach twisted. "Or worse—she was the reason for the fire."

Adrian's gaze was hard. "If she knew something about his finances, or if she threatened to expose him…"

Celeste closed her eyes for a moment. The image of Evelyn's locket, hidden beneath the floorboards, flashed in her mind. Help.

She had tried to warn them.

"We need to see the original insurance claim," Celeste said.

Adrian nodded. "And I think I know where to find it."

The Port Bellingham Insurance Company had been in operation for over a hundred years. It occupied a sleek, modern building now, but its records—dating back to the early 1900s—were stored in an off-site archive.

Adrian made a call to a contact he had at the company, a favour pulled from whatever mysterious network of connections he had. An hour later, they were standing in a cold, fluorescent-lit records room, surrounded by rows of metal filing cabinets.

A clerk handed them a thick manila folder.

"Everything related to the Fairmont fire is in there," she said. "But I can only give you thirty minutes. Company policy."

Celeste nodded quickly. "Thank you."

She and Adrian sat at a long table and flipped open the file.

The fire report was there—identical to the one they had already seen. But this time, there were additional documents.

Celeste's breath caught. "The insurance payout."

Adrian scanned the page. "They paid out double what the building was worth."

Celeste's head snapped up. "What?"

Adrian turned the paper toward her. "Wren claimed the fire was so devastating that it destroyed more than just the structure. He said valuable antiques, artwork, even rare film reels were lost."

Celeste's fingers tightened around the page. "But were they?"

Adrian flipped through the file. "There's no inventory list, no proof of these items existing in the first place."

Celeste stared at the document, the pieces clicking together in her mind.

"He staged it."

Adrian exhaled sharply. "He inflated the losses, maybe even planted false evidence, to get a bigger payout."

Celeste's heart pounded. "And Evelyn must have known."

Adrian's gaze was unreadable. "And she didn't live to tell anyone."

A cold shiver ran down Celeste's spine.

They left the archives with copies of the insurance documents, and as soon as they stepped into the chilly evening air, Celeste's phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen.

A new number.

She hesitated before answering. "Hello?"

Silence.

Then a low voice, rough and deliberate:

"I told you to leave it alone."

Celeste's blood ran cold.

Her grip on the phone tightened. "Who are you?"

A pause. Then:

"This isn't your fight."

And the line went dead.

Celeste lowered the phone slowly, her fingers trembling.

Adrian noticed immediately. "Another call?"

She nodded. "Same voice."

Adrian's jaw clenched. "That's it. We're getting the police involved."

Celeste hesitated. "With what? We have old records, an insurance fraud theory, and a hunch that Evelyn was murdered. The police won't reopen a seventy-five-year-old case on that."

Adrian looked at her, eyes dark with frustration. "So what do we do? Just wait for whoever this is to come knocking?"

Celeste swallowed hard.

"No," she said. "We find out who's calling me."

Adrian frowned. "And how do we do that?"

Celeste took a deep breath.

"We set a trap."

That night, they returned to the Fairmont.

Celeste's plan was risky, but it was the only thing she could think of. Whoever was trying to scare them clearly wanted them to stop digging. That meant they were watching.

So Celeste and Adrian staged a conversation in the open, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

"I'm sure the proof we need is inside the Fairmont," Celeste said dramatically, standing in the middle of the grand lobby. "If we can just find the original inventory list from 1948, we'll definitely prove Wren lied on his insurance claim."

Adrian played along. "Yeah, too bad we can't get into that locked records room upstairs. The one with all the old financial ledgers."

Celeste nodded. "Right. If only we had the key."

Then they left.

And they waited.

Adrian had installed motion-activated cameras around the theatre after the last break-in. Now, they sat in his car, watching the feed on his laptop.

Minutes passed.

An hour.

Then—

A shadow moved near the side entrance.

Celeste's breath caught.

A figure slipped inside.

Adrian's eyes narrowed. "Got you."

They moved fast. Adrian grabbed a flashlight, and Celeste clutched her phone, ready to call the police.

They entered the theatre as quietly as possible, listening.

Footsteps echoed above them.

Adrian pointed to the balcony staircase. "Up there."

They climbed quickly, careful not to make a sound.

At the top, they stopped just outside the old records room.

The door was open.

Celeste's pulse pounded.

Inside, someone was rifling through old filing cabinets, their back turned.

Adrian stepped forward. "Looking for something?"

The figure froze.

Then they turned—slowly.

Celeste's breath caught.

She knew that face.

Margaret Holloway.

James Holloway's daughter.

The woman who had given them her father's journal.

Her expression was hard, her eyes sharp with something unreadable.

Celeste stared. "You?"

Margaret's gaze didn't waver. "You should have left this alone."

Celeste's mind raced. Why was she here?

Adrian's voice was tense. "You've been warning us to stop."

Margaret exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Not to protect Wren." She looked at Celeste, something almost like regret in her eyes.

"I was trying to protect you."

Celeste's blood ran cold.

Because Margaret's voice wasn't just full of warning.

It was full of fear.