8. Graham
8
GRAHAM
It’s been a week.
Seven days. More than 150 hours.
I’ve kept myself in check for the last week. For the most part. I took advantage of a heavy workload, buried myself in projects that actually required my full attention.
I patched a security breach for a high-profile investment firm in New York. Finished rewriting an entire firewall protocol for a government contractor. Tracked down a hacker siphoning six figures out of an offshore account.
Every task checked off, every project completed. But it’s officially day eight, and I’m awake hours before my alarm goes off.
And I can’t physically make myself wait any longer.
When I left the bookstore— her bookstore—last week, I had every intention of adding all the new pieces of information to the evolving equation that is Francesca. But two miles later, when I walked through my front door, something held me back. It felt unnatural, wrong, not letting myself solve a mystery. Especially one that’s been eating at me for years.
But the unexpected pull of something else—something deeper, something unfamiliar—was still coursing through my veins. And it tricked me. Convinced me I shouldn’t dig deeper. That I should wait.
That maybe, somehow, she’d show up on my doorstep. As if she’d been following me as closely as I’d been trying to follow her.
Or maybe I’d run into her at the coffee shop again. Of course, that would be easier if I hadn’t spent the entire week avoiding the coffee shop like a goddamn coward.
But it’s been seven days. Not a single glimpse of her. At this point, I’m half-convinced I made her up. Some kind of sleep-deprived hallucination.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. It’s time.
I could walk by the bookstore, but at this time of day, it wouldn’t matter if she was real or not. It’s hours before anything opens.
Which means there’s only one way to prove my sanity.
I shake my protein drink as I stride toward my office, flicking on the lights with a sharp click. The glow from my monitors floods the room, casting long shadows against the walls. I set my drink down, rolling my shoulders back, flexing my fingers.
Usually, I start the morning with lo-fi beats, something slow, methodical. But there’s something foreign pounding against my skin, pushing and prodding at me. This kind of deep dive requires something different.
Something heavier.
I scroll through my playlist, settling on something relentless. Because that’s what I need to be.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity. A test. Half-convinced that I’m only looking now to see how I can improve the software. To see what steps I can take to connect more dots for clients in the future. The fact that most of my clients aren’t looking for missing people is irrelevant. I could easily apply it to something else.
Or fuck it. Maybe I’ll write a new extension. Something to track movements and digital footprints. Something to trace the spaces between. I’m sure it could be useful. For something .
I pull up her folder, adding in the few new details I’ve gathered. It’s not much. Less than I expected.
I don’t even have her last name yet, for fuck’s sake. But what I do have is the bookstore name. That’s enough to start.
I pull up the public business records, easy to access, no hacking required. City, state, and federal databases track commercial property ownership, licensing, and tax filings.
Fiction & Folklore should be listed under whoever owns it.
Except . . . it’s not. The owner isn’t a person. It’s a company. A preliminary search later, and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s a shell company.
“Shit.” That’s absolutely a red flag.
Most people don’t register a bookstore under a shell company unless they have something to hide.
So the mystery of Francesca deepens, my curiosity reignited.
I run the company name through my system, and it comes back clean. No hits. A basic search yields no digital trail, no board of directors, no financial filings for this company.
I exhale sharply, tapping my fingers once against my desk. I lean back in my chair, eyes still locked on the screen, as I rack my brain for the next steps. What about the previous bookstore owner? What was the name again? Everyone called it Main Street Books, but I don’t think it was the actual business name. It was something unusual, something that stood out.
I close my eyes, digging through old memories, trying to picture the faded wooden sign that used to hang above the shop’s door. “Maple Books. No, that’s not it. Maybe Storybook?”
I sift through years of passing by that little bookstore—on my way to the coffee shop, the gym, or just cutting through downtown. The image slowly sharpens. Weathered white letters, peeling at the edges, stretched over the big block text of Main Street Books.
My eyes snap open as the memory clicks into place. “Lavender Storybook Emporium.” That was the full name.
I type it into a search engine, fingers flying across the keyboard, and wait for the results to populate.
I get lucky with a few hits. A couple local newspaper articles, a bare-bones website that hasn’t been updated in a decade, and finally, the business registration records.
I scan the documents quickly, searching for a name. And there it is, at the bottom of the page, in faded ink. Miriam Astor, sole proprietor.
I run her name through my system next, watching as data populates across my screens. Newspaper articles about the bookstore, a few property records, and an obituary from five years ago.
My heart kicks against my ribs, sharp and insistent.
Could this be Francesca’s aunt?
I scan the obituary quickly, but the details are sparse. Miriam Astor, age fifty-two, died unexpectedly.
That’s it. No cause of death. No surviving family mentioned.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my neck from side to side, the vertebrae popping softly. The lack of familial details in the obituary tugs at something in my chest, a niggling sense that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.
Could it really be that Francesca has no family? That Miriam Astor was her only relative, and now she’s truly alone in the world? The thought sits heavy in my gut, an unexpected ache blooming behind my ribs.
But no, that doesn’t feel right either.
I exhale sharply, fingers already moving as I run her name through Oracle. Sorting through medical records, property filings, social connections takes time. And no amount of glaring at my monitors ever makes it work faster.
I should step back, let the system do its work. But the restless energy under my skin won’t settle. I open another tab, pulling up a basic search.
Fiction & Folklore, Avalon Falls.
The first thing that comes up is the Fiction & Folklore social media page. My eyes widen as I click on the most recent post, dated twenty-seven minutes ago.
Grand Opening Celebration Today! the post reads, followed by a series of colorful emojis. Books, sparkles, hearts, and paw prints.
My fingers hover over the trackpad as I click through the photos in the carousel, each one igniting a sharp flare of intrigue beneath my skin.
The first image is a wide shot of the bookstore’s interior, honey-colored hardwood floors stretching out before towering bookshelves that line the exposed brick walls. Overstuffed armchairs upholstered in rich jewel tones sit invitingly in cozy reading nooks, nestled between the stacks. Hanging plants cascade from macrame holders, their glossy leaves adding pops of emerald green.
My gaze lingers on the last photo, my pulse drumming an uneven rhythm.
Francesca’s smiling at the camera, eyes alight with joy and pride, one hand resting on the fluffy head of her dog. Her hair tumbles past her shoulders in soft waves, the golden strands glinting under the warm glow of the vintage light fixtures.
She looks beautiful. Ethereal. Like she stepped out of the pages of one of those novels she stocks on the shelves behind her.
I exhale slowly, my eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, committing every detail to memory. The gentle slope of her nose. The fullness of her lips, curved into a radiant smile. The smattering of freckles dusting her cheeks.
I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand through my hair. This woman has been an unsolvable puzzle for ten years. Popping into my life in brief, vivid moments before disappearing again without a trace. Leaving me with more questions than answers. More curiosity than sense.
And now, after all this time, she’s here. In Avalon Falls. Owning a bookstore two miles away like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like she belongs here.
The thought tugs at something deep in my chest. Like a key sliding into a lock, tumblers clicking into place.
Something possessive and primal that I don’t quite understand. That I’m not sure I want to examine too closely.
I exhale slowly, my gaze still locked on the photo of Francesca smiling at the camera.
I’m going to that grand opening.
I push to my feet, but hesitation lashes around my ankles. It’s the certainty of it. That if I go downtown this morning, I will see her. It’s not a chance, but a guarantee. And for some reason, that stretches across my skin like a wetsuit. Restrictive and thick, pressing against my ribs.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling a low, frustrated, “Fuck.”
I can’t show up empty-handed either. Normally, my mother is the go-to for this type of situation. She’s kind and generous, and never shows up empty-handed to a party.
But she’s also perceptive and nosy as hell. Too quick to read between the lines, and never missing an opportunity to ask when all of her children are going to settle down.
So, she’s out. Which leaves one person.
I snag my phone from my desk, and a moment later, ringing fills the room.
“Yeah?” my brother grumbles on speakerphone.
“I need your help.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “Sure thing, bro.”
A sigh heaves its way out of my chest, and I rub the back of my neck. “It’s more of a question, really.”
“Alright. I’m up, hit me with it.” His voice is dry, but there’s humor in it too.
I clear my throat, already feeling the sticky tang of regret. But it’s too late now. “What would you bring to a celebration?”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “A celebration? Like a birthday party? Whose birthday did you get invited to, but I didn’t?”
I roll my eyes. “No, not a birthday party. A grand opening.”
“Whose grand opening?”
I exhale sharply. “Are you going to tell me what I should bring or not?”
He huffs a laugh. “This is because Mom always says never show up empty-handed , isn’t it?”
“It might be.”
“You’re being weirder than usual. Can you just tell me what’s going on without all the cryptic shit? And why the hell is it happening at seven o’clock in the morning?”
I grunt, my lip curling up. “Are you going to help me or not?”
Beau hums a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. It’s easy, bro. What does she like?”
I hesitate a second. “I’m not sure.”
Beau exhales, muttering something under his breath. “Okay, well, go the generic route then. How about dessert? Maybe bring her a cake or something.”
My brows pull together. “A cake?”
He scoffs. “Yeah, a fucking cake, bro. How many times have you heard Cora tell us about all the work she gets from dudes buying custom-ordered shit for their girlfriends?—”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I cut him off. Girlfriend feels too small for the complex emotions Francesca evokes inside of me. And at this point, it could be entirely one-sided, something a solitary man created in his mind to smooth the sharp edges of loneliness.
“Ha! I knew it was a woman.” He laughs.
I roll my eyes and continue walking around my office. The back of my neck feels hot. “Whatever. Let’s move on.”
Beau snorts. “I’m just saying, I think I’d know if you suddenly started dating someone. We share a fucking house, for Christ’s sake.”
“Speaking of which, it’s your turn to clean.”
“Bullshit. I cleaned last week. It’s definitely your turn.”
“This is why we have the agreement.” I shake my head. “It’s taped to the fridge, so we both can see it.” Truthfully, we don’t even use the shared apartment all that often, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be cleaned.
Beau groans. “Yeah, yeah, okay, Dad . I’ll check it when I have a chance. Good luck on getting a cake for your non-girlfriend.”
I ignore the dig. “What’s even open at this time of day?”
“Dude, just call Cora.”
That gives me pause. Coraline is a few years younger than Beau, and even though there’s a larger age gap between me and our youngest sister, Abby, it’s Cora that I have the least relationship with.
There’s no bad blood. Nothing that’s ever gone awry. It’s just . . . we don’t always understand each other.
And maybe I don’t understand Abby either, but since she lives on the other side of the country, that distance feels easier to ignore.
Cora took the money our late Nana Jo left her when she passed away and opened her own bakery. It had been her goal for as long as I could remember. She’s been in the kitchen for as long as I can remember, so it’s no surprise that she’s talented.
We reap the rewards of her skills every week at Sunday family dinner. But with those rewards come recipes that need fine-tuning. My sister likes to experiment with ingredients and dietary restrictions, which sounds good in theory. But it only takes one honey cheesecake made with fucking dried, ground-up crickets to make a man wary. Since then, I always make it a point to ask what the main ingredients are before I eat anything of hers.
“Yeah, you’re right. I just don’t know if she has anything that’s, you know . . . normal.”
Beau chuckles. “Well, if this mystery woman is vegan, she’s gonna love it even more. Cora talks all the time about how hard it is to find good vegan desserts. Bonus points, bro.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I know so. Trust your big brother,” Beau coos around a laugh.
I roll my eyes. “I’m older than you are, dumbass. And taller.”
“Potato, potahtoh. Gotta run. Good luck with the non-girlfriend’s opening of whatever today.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, jaw ticking. I exhale sharply, my fingers hovering over my phone screen. I don’t like asking for favors. But I don’t want to show up empty-handed more.
“Fuck.”
I tap out the text to my sister.
Me: Sorry to bother you so early, but I’d like to buy a cake.
The response comes in immediately.
Cora: LOL. I’ve been up for three hours already.
Cora: A cake?
I drag a hand over my face, already regretting this.
Me: Yes.
Me: I need something for a grand opening.
Cora: No problem! What are you thinking and when do you need it by?
Me: In two hours. And I don’t know, whatever you want to make or if you have extra or anything, that’s fine.
Cora: Oh gosh. Two hours is kind of tight, but I’ll do my best. How do you feel about carrot cake? I’m already working on a custom order for someone, and I have some batter leftover. How big of a cake do you want?
Me: Whatever you want. Or cupcakes are okay too, if that’s better.
Cora: Got it. I’ll see what I can do for you.
Relief weighs my shoulders down a little.
Me: Thanks. I’ve been meaning to look at your security for your bakery, so I’ll check it out when I’m there today.
Cora: Oh, you don’t have to do that. Especially if you’re in a hurry!
Me: I’m just repaying the favor.
Cora: Okay, I better go get to work. See you later!
I set my phone down on my desk and exhale slowly. My mind is already racing ahead to seeing Francesca again. Something warm and unfamiliar curls in my chest at the thought. Anticipation maybe. Or nerves.
I’m not used to feeling either of those things. But I don’t hate it.