Chapter Sixteen
Everything Unravels
Here’s the thing about construction crews: they don’t knock.
They just appear outside your window at dawn with measuring tapes and clipboards, treating your home like a corpse they’re about to dissect.
Which, Eva supposed as she watched two men in hard hats photograph the inn’s Tudor beams, wasn’t far from the truth.
‘Thornfield Construction: Building Tomorrow’s Heritage’ read the van parked outside, though Eva saw it more like a hearse at a wake.
Eva had always thought corporate slogans were the poetry of capitalism—pretty words to disguise ugly intentions.
“They’re early,” Florence said when Eva found her in the kitchen, stirring porridge with the mechanical precision of someone whose mind was elsewhere.
“Aidan said they wouldn’t start until after Christmas. ”
“Aidan says a lot of things.” Eva poured tea from the ever-present pot, noting how even Florence’s secret weapon—the sheep-shaped tea cosy—looked dejected this morning. “Most of them are lies dressed up in expensive disguises.”
Florence almost smiled. Almost. “You’re starting to sound like Charlie.”
“God help me.”
They watched through the window as one of the men held up his phone, documenting the inn’s distinctive timber framing with the clinical efficiency of a medical examiner. Click. Click. Click. Each photo another nail in the coffin.
Eva’s phone buzzed. Aidan. She could smell the cologne through the screen.
Aidan: Good morning, Eva. I hope you slept well. Could we meet for coffee? I have a proposition that might interest you.
“Speak of the devil,” Eva muttered.
“What does he want now?” Florence asked.
“To offer me something I don’t want while pretending it’s exactly what I need. It’s his signature move, apparently.”
Another text appeared.
Aidan: The café on Goodramgate in 20 minutes? My treat.
Eva grimaced, locked her phone and placed it in her back pocket. She would just ignore him, then he’d go away, right? But something made her pause. Know your enemy, her father always said. And she needed to understand Aidan’s plans if she had any hope of stopping them.
Eva: Fine. 20 minutes.
Eva was surprised by the chosen location.
The independent coffee shop didn’t seem to be Aidan’s scene at all.
With its mismatched chairs and woven blankets over bean bags, he must have picked this spot to impress her, or at least try to lull her into a false sense of security.
Eva was on high alert, she knew exactly what kind of guy Aidan was.
He’d already arrived by the time she got there, sitting at a corner table with two cups waiting.
“Eva,” he said warmly, standing as she approached. “Thank you for coming. I took the liberty of ordering you a latte—is that all right?”
“It’s fine,” Eva said curtly, sitting down but not removing her coat. “What do you want, Aidan?”
“Straight to business. I like that.” He leaned back, studying her with those calculating eyes. “I have a proposition for you.”
He pulled out a sleek folder, sliding it across the table.
“My company—Thornfield Development—we don’t just renovate buildings.
We create narratives around them, document their histories, connect the past with the future.
You know, really sell it to the people. Anyway, we need someone with your skills. ”
Eva opened the folder to find glossy brochures of his previous projects. The photography was beautiful, the marketing copy was polished. But something felt hollow about it all.
“You want me to write marketing copy?”
“I want you to be our Chief Narrative Officer.” The title rolled off his tongue with emphasis on each word.
How many times has he practiced this speech?
“You’d travel to our sites across Britain, maybe Europe eventually.
Research the buildings’ histories, spin the stories that make people fall in love with them. ”
He went on to name a figure that made Eva’s eyes widen.
But it wasn’t just the money—it was the travel.
The idea of exploring more places like York, diving into their histories, uncovering their stories.
She could stay in Britain legally, with a real visa.
She could take trains to Scotland, ferries to Ireland, maybe even the Channel to Paris.
“Tell me more,” she heard herself say.
Aidan’s smile widened. “We have projects everywhere. Bath, Edinburgh, Canterbury. You’d spend time in each location, really get to know the buildings, the communities.
Full creative freedom to write whatever the hell you want.
The goal is to sell someone a story and get them to sign on the dotted line. ”
Eva’s mind was spinning. For a moment she’d seen herself wandering through Bath’s elegant streets, researching the lives of the people who’d walked those Georgian squares.
Scottish castles. Welsh mining villages.
All of it waiting to be explored. But what Aidan now described seemed more like selling out.
“You could document our heritage preservation efforts,” Aidan continued. “Chronicle how we breathe new life into dying buildings. They’re all the better for it, Eva.”
“Sure, because you have so many ‘heritage preservation efforts’,” Eva said dryly. “And anyway, why me? You barely know me.”
“Because you’re not rooted here. You’re not weighed down by generations of Yorkshire stubbornness. You understand progress.” He leaned forward. “And frankly, you’re wasted here. Following ghost stories through a dying city, mooning after Charlie Blackwood—”
“I’m not mooning after anyone,” Eva protested.
“Aren’t you?” Aidan’s smile was knowing. “He’s never going to choose you over this place, Eva. Charlie’s married to the past. You could do so much better.”
“Like working for you?”
“Like building an actual future.” He pulled out his phone, showing her photos. “This is our Bath project. Twelve units, each one preserving the period features while offering modern luxury—”
“How much of the original building is left?” Eva interrupted.
“Well, the facade, obviously. Some of the nicer interior elements. The things that matter.”
“And who decides what matters?”
Aidan’s eyes hardened slightly. “The market decides.”
Eva stared at the photos, thinking of Nashville— how quickly the honky-tonks had given way to rooftop bars, how the old recording studios became boutique hotels.
She’d watched her city transform, historic music venues demolished for condos marketed to people who complained about the noise from the clubs that had been there first. Progress, they called it.
But Eva had seen what progress looked like when it had no respect for the past— it was erasure dressed up in glass and steel.
“You know what I’ve learned, living in Nashville?” Eva said slowly. “Change isn’t inherently good or bad. It’s necessary. But there’s a difference between evolution and extinction. Between adapting a story and deleting it entirely.”
Aidan tilted his head. “That’s an interesting perspective.”
“It’s an American perspective,” Eva corrected.
“We’re so young as a country that we tear things down without thinking.
A hundred-year-old building? Ancient by our standards.
But here? That’s practically new construction.
Maybe that’s why I can see what you’re doing more clearly—I’ve watched my own city forget itself in real time. ”
Eva stared at the photos. “So, what’s your plan for The Riddle it was in freefall.
She found Florence in the kitchen, the older woman’s face flushed from having to compete with the cacophony of tools and vehicles screaming from every direction. But before she could explain about Charlie, Florence grabbed her arm.
“THANK GOD YOU’RE BACK!” Florence bellowed over the pounding of a hammer somewhere above them. “CHARLIE’S BESIDE HIMSELF—TILLY’S MISSING!”
“What?” Eva shouted back, leaning in close.