The Last Bookstore (Part 4)

Evelyn’s mind raced. The man in the coat didn’t move, but his presence filled the narrow space, blocking her way out.

“You took the black book from the counter,” she said.

His eyes flicked toward the desk. “It’s not meant for people who still think they can choose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The Scribes don’t predict the future, Miss Chase. We preserve it. Once the words are written, it’s already set. The only choice is whether anyone listens.”

“Then why tell me to stay out of it?”

“Because meddling gets people killed, people you might care about.”

Her fingers curled into fists. “If you know what’s going to happen on the fourteenth, then help me stop it.”

Something unreadable flickered across his face, then he shook his head. “Not my call. But if you want to play hero, start with the Holloway building.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone with the heavy silence.

Evelyn didn’t go home that night. She sat in the bookstore with the second black book open, copying the entries, cross-referencing them with her phone.

By 3 a.m., she had pieced together the bones of the plan: a diversion during the Valentine’s festival parade, the crowd drawn toward the square, and an explosive device planted inside the Holloway building’s old maintenance room.

She stared at the word detonate until her vision blurred.

The next day, she tried the police. She laid out the date, time, and location, leaving out the more unbelievable parts about invisible ink and hidden rooms.

The officer took notes, nodded sympathetically, and told her someone would “look into it.”

By the time she walked out of the station, she knew they wouldn’t.

On the twelfth, the black SUV reappeared. This time it parked directly in front of PageTurners. Gavin Cross came in alone, his smile thin.

“You’re still here,” he said. “That’s unfortunate.”

“I told you, I’m not selling.”

He leaned on the counter, lowering his voice. “You think this is about real estate? We know what’s under your store, Miss Chase. And we know you’ve been in the room. So here’s your last warning, hand over anything you found, or the next headline won’t be about some old building in the square.”

She didn’t answer. His smile vanished. “Tick, tock,” he said, tapping the counter twice before walking out.

That night, Evelyn returned to the hidden room. She flipped through every crate, every brown-paper-wrapped book. Most contained old Scribe warnings, but in the bottom drawer of one filing cabinet, she found a metal lock-box. Inside was a folded piece of parchment, the edges brittle with age.

On it, in the same looping script:

If you’re reading this, you’ve found the Key.

Below the words was a complex cipher chart, a grid of symbols, numbers, and letters. She realized it could be used to decode any Scribe message.

Her hands shook as she used the chart on the “Valentine’s Eve” entry in the black book. The decoded line was longer than she expected:

Crowd distraction. Detonate. Target is not the festival, target is you.

The meaning hit her like ice water. The entire Valentine’s Day prophecy wasn’t about some random attack on Millhaven. It was about her.

-Click for Part 5-