Chapter 26
The Italian Bistro
The restaurant sat halfway down a narrow back street most people in Sylva walked past without noticing—a small brick building with amber light spilling through the windows and the scent of garlic and fresh bread drifting into the night air.
Reid opened the door for her.
“After you.”
Eleanor stepped inside and glanced around.
Soft music played near the bar—something light and jazzy. A chalkboard menu hung on the exposed brick wall. The clink of plates, the low hum of conversation, the smell of tomatoes and basil and butter wrapped around her.
Casual. Cozy. More trattoria than white-tablecloth. Not like the place they’d gone the other night.
Lovely, yes—but this felt easier.
Near the front, a familiar voice carried across the room.
“Reid.”
Sheriff Burke Scott stood from a corner table, napkin in hand. Across from him, Caitlin rose as well, setting down her wineglass.
Eleanor felt a quick flicker of self-consciousness.
Dinner with the district attorney, where the sheriff could see her? That was something else.
Reid smiled.
“Burke. Caitlin.”
They crossed the few steps to the table.
Burke’s gaze moved from Reid to Eleanor, then back again. The corner of his mouth tipped up slightly.
“Evenin’,” he said. “Didn’t know this was a working dinner.”
“It’s not,” Reid said easily. “Promise.”
Caitlin’s eyes softened when she looked at Eleanor.
“Good to see you out,” she said. “How’s the circus?”
“Louder every day,” Eleanor said. “Still figuring out how to sell tickets.”
Burke huffed a quiet laugh.
“Just make sure they’re non-refundable.”
Reid glanced toward the back of the restaurant.
“They still have the patio open?”
Caitlin nodded.
“Best seats in the place. Go before somebody else figures it out.”
Burke gave Eleanor a small nod.
“Good to see you,” he said. “Enjoy the quiet while you’ve got it.”
“We’ll do our best,” she said.
Reid touched Burke’s shoulder lightly in passing.
“See you tomorrow.”
Then he guided Eleanor toward the back of the restaurant.
Burke watched them thread their way between the tables.
“They make a nice couple,” Caitlin murmured, reaching for her wine.
The corner of Burke’s mouth tipped up.
“Yeah,” he said. “They do.”
“She’s not used to being the show,” Caitlin added. “Give her a minute.”
The Back Patio
A set of French doors opened onto a stone patio that felt like stepping into another world.
River rock and moss-lined stones edged a narrow creek rushing just beyond the low wall, water catching bits of lantern light as it moved. Vines climbed a wooden trellis overhead. Candlelit lanterns flickered on each table.
Only two others were occupied. The rest of the patio was quiet.
Secluded. Romantic.
Reid glanced around.
“This work?”
Eleanor took in the lanterns, the creek, the soft rush of water.
“Absolutely not,” she said.
His brow lifted.
“No?”
“It’s far too pretty. I’m going to have to pretend I don’t notice how charming you’re trying to be.”
He smiled.
“Charming is Caitlin’s word. I was going for ‘safe distance from eavesdropping.’”
“And the moss-covered rocks?”
“Pure coincidence.”
They sat at a small table near the edge of the patio.
The creek softened the noise from town, turning the back street into something that felt miles away.
Lantern light brushed over Eleanor’s face, catching faint gold in her hair and turning her eyes into something startling against all the warm brick and candlelight—cool, sharp blue that missed nothing and still somehow looked soft in this light.
Eleanor lifted her wineglass.
“To hidden patios.”
Reid tapped his glass to hers.
“And safe distances.”
She arched a brow.
“From what?”
He studied her over the rim of his glass.
“From everyone who thinks they know your life because they listened to three podcast episodes.”
Her smile thinned slightly.
“That many?”
“Oh, at least. I hear there’s merch now.”
She rolled her eyes.
“If they put my face on a mug, I’m leaving the country.”
“Noted. I’ll prosecute whoever prints them.”
They talked easily.
About Mercer. About the media circling the town like sharks that smell blood. About the absurdity of internet sleuths suddenly deciding they knew everything about Jackson County.
Between strategy and speculation, the conversation drifted into lighter places.
Reid told her about the first time he sat second chair on a murder trial and nearly knocked over counsel table when he stood up too fast.
“You?” she said, amused. “Mr. Calm and Collected?”
“Tripped over my own briefcase,” he admitted. “The jury pretended not to notice. They absolutely noticed.”
She laughed.
“I once called a judge ‘Your Honor, sir’ and then immediately apologized for saying ‘sir’ like I’d sworn in court.”
“Tell me it was federal court.”
“Oh, of course. I only humiliate myself on the biggest possible stage.”
Later their server set down a basket of bread.
They both reached for it at the same time.
His fingers brushed hers.
A small, accidental contact.
Eleanor felt it all the way to her chest.
She didn’t pull away. She simply took a piece of bread and told herself the rush of warmth was the wine.
Liar.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the patio had grown quiet, Reid leaned back and just looked at her for a moment.
Eleanor set her glass down.
“What?”
One corner of his mouth tipped up.
“So,” he said, “have you been thinking about me all week?”
Heat crept into her cheeks before she could stop it. She rolled her eyes.
“You really don’t need any help with your ego, do you?”
His low laugh slid across the table.
“Didn’t answer the question, Counselor.”
She took another sip of wine that absolutely wasn’t stalling.
“You look happy tonight,” he said.
She tilted her head.
“I am.”
“That’s good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised,” he said. “Just relieved.”
She watched him for a moment.
“You worry about me more than you admit.”
He shrugged.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Prosecutor or… something else?”
He didn’t look away.
“Both.”
The air shifted.
Neither of them moved.
The creek rushed past, steady and indifferent.
Finally Reid stood.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Walk,” he said. “Before you decide this was a bad idea and send me home with a closing argument.”
She smiled.
“I do give very good closing arguments.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m moving you.”
They stepped back onto the narrow street. The night air felt cooler after the bistro.
They walked slowly. Her shoulder brushed his.
Reid stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp.
He took a second to simply look at her.
“You know,” he said, “this town isn’t used to you yet.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“What does that mean?”
“You walk into a room and people notice,” he said. “They’re still figuring out what to do with you.”
She laughed softly.
“That’s not always a good thing.”
“It is tonight.”
The certainty in his voice made her heart skip.
Reid stepped closer.
His hand slid lightly to her waist, fingers brushing the thin fabric of her dress before settling there.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re about to do something reckless.”
“Probably am.”
“Is this where I remind you I warned you this wouldn’t work?”
“You did,” he said.
“And yet here we are.”
“And yet.”
Then he kissed her.
This one was slower. Deeper.
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He tasted like wine and basil and something that felt too much like wanting more.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
When they finally pulled apart, she looked at him.
“Well.”
Eleanor glanced at him, something unspoken catching in her chest.
The feeling came out of nowhere—a prickle at the back of her neck. Like they weren’t alone after all.
Headlights swung around the corner. Too bright.
A van with Fading Away stenciled along the side rolled to a stop — the rival podcast chasing the same story Lila Grant had already set loose.
Camera lights exploded across the brick walls.
Eleanor blinked against the glare.
“Eleanor Harper!”
A microphone appeared.
“Is it true you’re representing David Mercer?”
Another voice shouted.
“Do you believe Mercer murdered Caroline Simms?”
The name hit like a thrown stone.
Caroline.
For a split second it wasn’t Sylva at all.
It was Charleston.
Lights too bright. Microphones too close.
Strangers saying her name like they already knew who she was. Like they’d tried her, judged her, and decided the verdict before she ever opened her mouth.
Reid moved instantly.
His body stepped between Eleanor and the lights.
Calm. Controlled. Protective.
“Interview’s over,” he said evenly.
A woman leaned around him with a microphone.
“Mr. Calloway, as district attorney do you think it’s appropriate for a defense attorney involved in a missing woman case to be—”
Reid looked at her.
She stopped mid-sentence.
“You’re trespassing,” he said. “Back up. Now.”
Another reporter pushed forward.
“Do you believe Mercer is a suspect?”
Reid didn’t raise his voice.
But there was steel in it.
“The Jackson County Sheriff’s Office conducts investigations.”
A beat.
“Not crowd-sourced guessing games.”
A third voice shouted.
“Ms. Harper, is it true you specialize in defending men accused of harming women?”
That one landed harder.
The question hit like Charleston all over again. Headlines. Comment sections. Men on television saying her name like they knew her. She felt something inside her crack—not because it was true, but because she knew how fast people could decide it was true—and never question it again.
Reid shifted slightly, shielding her from the lights.
“You’re done.”
Two words.
The tone carried the quiet authority of someone used to controlling a courtroom.
The reporters hesitated.
Reid leaned slightly toward Eleanor.
“Your car’s down the block, right?”
She nodded.
“Go get in. Drive home.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll call a ride. I’m not letting them follow you.”
“Reid—”
“Eleanor.”
His voice softened.
“Date’s over. Not because I want it to be.”
A beat.
“Because this is where I draw the line.”
The reporters shouted again.
“Did Mercer kill her?”
“Are you blocking the investigation?”
Reid stepped more firmly between her and the lights.
“Go,” he murmured.
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
He walked her to the car, his hand steady at the small of her back.
He opened the door.
Flashbulbs exploded again.
She looked up at him.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.”
He leaned closer so only she could hear.
“You don’t have to fight them alone anymore,” Reid said, his voice a low vibration beneath the noise of the crowd.
A beat.
“Not here,” he said quietly. “Not ever again.”
Eleanor looked at him, and for the first time, she didn’t see the district attorney or a potential conflict of interest.
She saw a man who would rather take the hit himself than let it reach her.
“Rain check?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
He huffed softly.
“Count on it.”
She slid into the car.
Reid closed the door.
The cameras flashed again as she pulled away, white bursts reflecting in her rearview mirror like fading sparks.
In the rearview, Reid was a dark shape cut out against the white-hot glare of the flashbulbs. He didn’t move. Didn’t step back. He stood there between her and them as if that was where he intended to stay.
He looked like he was waiting.
As the van faded behind her, the silence of the mountain night slowly reclaimed the street.
By the time she pulled into her driveway, the tight knot beneath her ribs had loosened a fraction.
Home.
Eleanor killed the engine and sat for a moment, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel. The porch light cast its familiar circle across the steps. No cameras. No microphones. Just the soft thrum of crickets and the low hiss of the creek down the hill.
Inside, her phone waited on the kitchen counter where she’d left it.
It buzzed before she reached it.
A new notification lit the screen.
Fading Away Podcast
Someone had tagged her.
She unlocked the phone, already bracing.
A photo filled the screen—grainy but unmistakable. Her and Reid on the narrow street outside the bistro, his hand at her waist, his head bent toward hers in the second before that last kiss. The camera angle had caught more of her face than his.
Beneath the photo, the caption:
ELEANOR HARPER: DEFENSE ATTORNEY OR DISTRACTION?
The comments were already coming in beneath it.
Did anybody else notice Eleanor Harper suddenly showing up everywhere right when this case started?
I’m sorry, but she looks way too invested in David Mercer for this to be just professional.
Funny how everybody wanted Caroline’s case solved until Eleanor Harper started poking holes in the story.
People in Sylva have known David Mercer for years. Eleanor Harper’s been here five minutes and suddenly she knows better than everybody else?
Maybe Caroline Simms finally gets justice if Eleanor Harper stops turning this into a publicity tour.
Her stomach dipped.
Every time she refreshed, the number climbed higher. Comments stacked beneath the photo, strangers dissecting her expression, her dress, the way Reid’s fingers curved at her waist, as if the angle of his hand could prove a theory.
She set the phone down, screen still glowing.
The kitchen suddenly felt smaller.
The cameras on the street had been bad.
This was worse.
This was what happened when a moment that had been hers—private, fragile, almost happy—became content.
And somewhere underneath the noise of the hashtags and the echo of flashbulbs, one quiet truth settled in her chest.
Whatever was coming next, it wasn’t only about Mercer anymore.
Somehow, she had become part of the story.