Author’s Note: Thank you for joining me on this journey. If you are new to this story, I suggest you start with Chapter 1. Your comments and suggestions are very welcome!

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The library was silent except for the faint creak of Eleanor’s chair as she leaned forward, staring at the trunk. The cool, smooth brass key weighed more than it should. She had spent hours sitting with it, turning it over, imagining what might lie inside.

Finally, she could wait no longer.

Her fingers trembled as she inserted the key into the brass lock. It fit perfectly, and the mechanism turned with a satisfying click. The lid shifted slightly, releasing a faint whiff of aged leather and wood.

Eleanor hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. This was it. Whatever her grandfather had left her, whatever had been tied to her life all these years, was inside. She pushed the lid open, expecting… what? Answers? Clues? Treasures?

The trunk creaked as the lid fell back, revealing its contents.

Or rather, its lack thereof.

Eleanor frowned. The trunk had felt heavy when the lawyer’s associate carried it, yet all that lay inside was a single, ancient, leather-bound book.

She blinked, her heart sinking with disappointment. She had imagined something more—a collection of objects, a stack of papers, some grand revelation waiting to be uncovered. This felt anticlimactic.

She donned gloves and carefully lifted the book. The leather cover was cracked and worn, its edges scuffed with age. It was heavier than it looked, the kind of weight that spoke of craftsmanship and time. She turned it over in her hands, searching for any identifying marks, but there were none.

No title. No author.

Nothing.

Eleanor’s brow furrowed. She ran her fingers over the surface, feeling the grooves and imperfections in the leather. It was exquisite yet entirely unassuming.

“Well,” she muttered, her voice breaking the oppressive silence, “that’s… underwhelming.”

She pushed the empty trunk aside and placed the book on her desk, its ancient presence filling the room. She opened the cover slowly, afraid it might disintegrate in her hands.

Her breath hitched.

The pages were blank.

Eleanor flipped through them quickly, her movements growing more frantic with each turn. Page after page, the result was the same. There were no words, illustrations, or marks—just crisp, slightly yellowed paper, untouched by ink.

She sat back, the book lying open on the desk before her.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she whispered.

The frustration simmering within her all day began to boil over. She had followed this thread, pressed her mother for answers, and confronted her own buried memories, all for this—a blank book.

Eleanor leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the desk and cradling her head. The weight of the day pressed down on her, the questions that had burned so brightly now doused by the anticlimax of an empty trunk and an unreadable book.

Yet… something gnawed at her.

Why would her grandfather go to such lengths to leave her a blank book? Why the secrecy, the promise, the elaborate chain of events leading to this moment?

Her eyes shifted to the open book on the desk. It felt significant, even though it shouldn’t.

She ran her fingers over the blank page, half-expecting something to happen. The paper was smooth, cool to the touch, and perfectly ordinary.

Except it didn’t feel ordinary.

Eleanor couldn’t explain it, but as she sat there, staring at the blank pages, a flicker of unease crept up her spine. This wasn’t over. Whatever this book was, whatever her grandfather had intended for her to find, it was more than it seemed.

She just didn’t know how to see it yet.

—–

Days passed, and the leather-bound book remained as enigmatic as ever. Eleanor was drawn to it each morning as if it were silently calling her. She’d sit at her desk with the book open, staring at the blank pages, running her fingers over the smooth paper, searching for meaning.

But nothing ever happened.

At first, she told herself it was just her natural curiosity, her compulsion to solve mysteries. But with each passing day, her fascination with the book deepened into something more. It felt like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch, an answer just out of reach.

That morning was no different. Eleanor sat at her desk with the book open, her fingers lightly resting on the edge of a blank page. She stared at it, willing it to reveal something, anything.

The knock at her office door startled her. She looked up to see Thomas leaning in, his face alight with excitement.

“Got a new twist for you,” he said, holding up his notebook.

Removing her gloves, Eleanor gestured for him to come in. “What is it this time?”

Thomas dropped into the chair across from her, flipping open his notebook. “You remember the Jazz book? The one you found last week?”

“How could I forget?” Eleanor said with a small smile.

“Well, they finally got their hands on it,” Thomas said. “It’s a goldmine. There are tons of rare photos, personal anecdotes, and other stuff. But the real treasure? A letter from Louis Armstrong.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “A letter?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, leaning forward. “Written to someone he called his mentor. It’s a heartfelt letter about how this person helped shape his career and inspired his music. The patron is dying to know who this mysterious mentor was.”

“Let me guess,” Eleanor said, folding her hands on the desk. “The letter doesn’t name them.”

Thomas grinned sheepishly. “Not exactly. All it has is a first name—Charles. And a vague reference to a meal they shared at some point. That’s it.”

Eleanor frowned, her mind already turning over the possibilities. “That’s not much to go on.”

“I know,” Thomas said. “But if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, her bare hand brushing against the open book as she considered where to begin. Her only threads were a name, a meal, and a connection to Louis Armstrong. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting her thoughts settle.

When she opened them again, her breath caught in her throat.

Writing appeared on the blank page beneath her hand, the words forming in smooth, elegant script as if an unseen pen were tracing them.

“Charles Dupont, restauranteur and jazz enthusiast. Owner of The Velvet Spoon in New Orleans, 1922–1936. First meeting with Louis Armstrong: June 1924, over a shared plate of crawfish etouffee.”

Eleanor froze, staring at the page. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted it from the paper. The words were still there, black ink against the cream-colored page.

“Eleanor?” Thomas said, his voice pulling her back to reality. “You okay?”

She looked at him sharply, then back at the page. The words were still there, clear as day.

“You… don’t see that?” she asked, staring down at the book, her voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas tilted his head down and looked at the book. “See what?”

“The—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard. “Never mind.”

Thomas frowned, concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”

Eleanor forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” she said, her voice steadier now.

Thomas left, closing the door behind him, and Eleanor returned to the book. The words were still there, as vivid and real as if she’d written them herself.

Her heart pounded.

This wasn’t possible. Was she hallucinating? Losing her mind?

She touched the page again, half-expecting the words to vanish beneath her fingers. But they remained steadfast and solid.

Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her memory: “See the whole puzzle, not just the piece.”

Was this what he had meant? Had the puzzle box unlocked something inside her all those years ago? Something that had lain dormant until now?

Eleanor stared at the book, the pieces of her life rearranging in her mind. The inexplicable instincts, the answers that came to her without reason, the way puzzles seemed to solve themselves under her hands.

It wasn’t just a skill. It wasn’t luck.

It was this.

Whatever this was.

Her fingers hovered over the page again, a mix of fear and wonder coursing through her. She whispered the name aloud, testing its sound: “Charles Dupont.”

The words didn’t change. They didn’t vanish.

For the first time since opening the trunk, Eleanor felt like she was about to experience something extraordinary.

—–

Eleanor sat in her office, the ancient leather-bound book open in front of her. Its blank pages were no longer a mystery. The words about Louis Armstrong’s mysterious mentor had vanished when she closed the book earlier, leaving the pages as pristine as ever.

Now, she stared at it, the key still resting beside it on the desk. Her heart raced as she considered what had happened, what it could mean.

Could the book respond to her? Had it written the story of Charles Dupont because she’d been thinking about it?

The idea seemed absurd, impossible. But wasn’t everything about this book impossible?

Her pulse quickened as she reached out and placed her hand lightly on a blank page. She closed her eyes and focused, imagining someone specific. The janitor, Mr. Fowler, came to mind—an older man who whistled as he cleaned the library after hours. She pictured him in detail: his stooped shoulders, his cheerful smile, the way he always joked about how no one ever noticed his work until he didn’t do it.

Nothing happened.

Eleanor opened her eyes. The page was still blank.

She frowned, her curiosity outweighing her frustration, and tried again. This time, she thought of Thomas. She pictured him sitting across from her, his excitement as he shared a new mystery. She thought of his enthusiasm, quick wit, and eagerness to learn.

Again, nothing.

Her fingers tapped against the desk as she mulled it over. If it wasn’t everyone, then…

Her mother.

The thought came unbidden, her mother’s face flashing in her mind’s eye: the tension in her jaw, the way she had snapped at Eleanor to stay away from the trunk, the whispered “Promises…” Eleanor hesitated, unsure if she wanted to know what the book might reveal.

But the question gnawed at her. Why had her mother been so adamantly against her pursuing any of this? Why had she reacted so strongly to the key, trunk, and everything tied to Malcolm Grant?

Slowly, hesitantly, Eleanor let her hand settle on the page again. She thought of her mother, imagining her as vividly as she could—the way she moved, the sound of her voice, the storm of emotions that always seemed to swirl beneath her surface.

The page began to shift.

Eleanor’s breath caught as words appeared, forming in the same elegant script she had seen before.

“A girl a little older than Eleanor was when she solved the puzzle box sits cross-legged on her father’s study floor. The same box rests in her lap, its intricate pieces gleaming in the firelight. Her father watches her with patient anticipation as she fumbles with the pieces, her small fingers moving them clumsily, unsure of how they connect.”

Eleanor’s fingers twitched, and she nearly pulled her hand away, but the words continued to form, compelling her to keep reading.

“The girl is frustrated. She doesn’t understand the puzzle. The pieces don’t make sense or fit how they should. Her father encourages her, but she feels his disappointment growing. She senses it in the way he leans back, the way his tone shifts from warm to cool.”

Eleanor’s stomach churned, but she couldn’t stop.

“When she finally gives up, the puzzle box unopened, her father sighs and takes it from her hands. His attention drifts away from her after that. Slowly, at first, but steadily. She becomes invisible to him, her failure marking her as unworthy of the puzzles, the stories, the secrets he holds dear.”

Her heart pounded, her throat dry. The story shifted, the ink flowing into new shapes.

“Years later, a baby is born—Eleanor. The man’s attention is reignited. His focus sharpened. He saw potential, whereas once, he saw only failure. His stories return, and his puzzles reappear. But this time, they are not meant for his daughter. They are meant for his granddaughter.”

Eleanor gasped, snatching her hand away as if the book had burned her. The writing stopped abruptly, leaving the page filled with a half-finished sentence.

She stared at the book, her mind racing.

Her mother had tried the puzzle box. She had failed.

Eleanor pressed her trembling hands to her mouth, the weight of the revelation sinking in. Her mother’s bitterness, her anger toward Malcolm, and her insistence that Eleanor stay away made sense now.

But what did it mean for her? For this strange gift she seemed to have?

Her gaze fell back to the book. The words on the page were still there, stark and vivid against the cream-colored paper. Slowly, her hand drifted toward the book again, wanting to touch it, to see if more of the story would appear.

But she stopped herself, pulling her hand back.

She could no longer deny it: this book wasn’t just a relic. It was alive in a way she didn’t understand, tied to her and her family in ways she wasn’t sure she wanted to explore.

And yet, she couldn’t ignore it either.

—–

Eleanor couldn’t stop thinking about the book.

At first, she tried to ignore it, to leave it closed on her desk. The words it revealed felt intrusive, like secrets unearthed from graves long undisturbed. It was wrong, wasn’t it? To peek behind the curtains of lives that weren’t hers? To read moments that were meant to stay private?

But the pull was too strong.

The first time she opened it again, she told herself it was just to confirm what she had seen before. Her hand hovered over the blank page, trembling as she thought of something simple. Something harmless.

The writing began to appear almost immediately, forming a brief story:

“Thomas stands at the library’s front desk, nervous but eager. It’s his first day, and he’s unsure of what to do. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, stealing glances at the assistant librarian. When he sees a patron approach, his heart skips a beat. His smile falters, but he manages a greeting. ‘Welcome to the library.’ The words come out too quiet, but the patron smiles, and Thomas breathes a sigh of relief. His confidence grows, one step at a time.”

Eleanor let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The story was so mundane, so… ordinary.

She tried again, asking the book to tell her something about her father. The words appeared, elegant and clear:

“A man in his late twenties sits at a table, a plate of lemon tart in front of him. He savors each bite, his smile broad and genuine. It is his favorite dessert, a treat he allows himself only on special occasions. Across the table, a young Eleanor watches him with wide eyes, wondering why he loves the tart so much. He hands her a bite, and she wrinkles her nose at the sharp tang of lemon. He laughs, ruffling her hair. ‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ he says.”

A laugh bubbled out of her, bittersweet and unexpected. She remembered that day. She’d been five or six, and her father had been so alive, so happy.

The book wasn’t just showing her secrets—it was preserving memories. Her curiosity grew.

——

Over the days that followed, Eleanor kept returning to the book. At first, she kept her inquiries light: small, inconsequential moments from the lives of the people she cared about. But the more she used it, the more she felt its pull toward deeper truths, toward the moments that shaped lives and broke them.

One day, she thought of her mother. The story the book revealed sent a shiver down her spine:

“A woman sits alone, her hands curled into fists. Her father’s voice drifts up from downstairs, warm and animated, but it’s not for her. It hasn’t been for years. She thinks about the puzzle box, the one she could never open. She remembers his sigh, the way his attention slipped away, the way his eyes brightened when he saw her baby daughter for the first time. She realizes, in that moment, that she has lost him, and she never truly had him to begin with.”

Eleanor had to close the book after that. Her hands trembled as she sat in silence, the weight of her mother’s pain pressing down on her.

But she couldn’t stop.

She returned to the book again and again, drawn to its stories like a moth to a flame. And then one day, she thought of her father.

The words appeared quickly, unfolding a story she hadn’t expected, one that struck her like a punch to the gut.

“A man lies in a hospital bed, his breathing shallow, his skin pale. Eleanor sits at his bedside, holding his hand, her tears silent but steady. Across the room, unseen, another man stands. Malcolm Grant watches his son-in-law with sorrow etched into every line of his face. He holds a book in his hands—the same book Eleanor now possesses. He opens it, his fingers trembling, and the pages glow faintly in the dim light.”

Eleanor’s breath hitched, but the story continued.

“Malcolm places his hand on the page, his expression conflicted. He whispers something under his breath, words Eleanor cannot hear. The glow fades, and he closes the book. A nurse enters, and Malcolm steps back into the shadows. He watches as his daughter and granddaughter grieve, knowing there was nothing more he could do.”

The page was still. The story was done.

Eleanor sat frozen, her heart racing.

Her grandfather had been there, at the hospital. He had watched. And he had used this book—her book—to do… what? To try to save her father? To record the moment?

Or worse, had he caused it?

Her mind reeled with the implications. Her mother had hated her grandfather, hated this book. Was this why? Did she believe it had played a role in her father’s death?

Eleanor’s hand hovered over the page again, her thoughts spiraling. She wanted to know more, to push further, but a deep unease rooted her in place.

The book wasn’t just a tool. It wasn’t just a curiosity.

It was something far more powerful—and far more dangerous—than she had ever imagined.

——

The house was quiet again, but the stillness was heavy and oppressive. Eleanor’s mother, Margaret, stood at the living room window, staring at the taillights of her daughter’s car as it disappeared down the street. She gripped the curtain’s edge so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Her chest ached, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in years. She had trained herself to hold back the tears, to push the pain deep into the corners of her mind where it couldn’t control her.

But tonight, it threatened to break free.

Margaret turned away from the window, her gaze falling on the ashtray where the cursed key had sat for so many years. She had told herself that she’d discarded it, that she’d thrown it into the sea, buried it, destroyed it. But the truth was, she couldn’t. The key always seemed to find its way back.

Just like him.

She sank onto the couch, the old cushions sighing under her weight, and let her head fall into her hands. Unbidden and unwanted, memories surged, dragging her back to the darkest days of her life.

Her husband dying in that sterile hospital room. The smell of antiseptic, the relentless beep of the machines, the soft hum of voices in the hallway. She had been at his bedside, holding his hand, willing him to stay, to fight, to live.

And then he had shown up. Malcolm Grant. Her father.

She had barely looked at him at first. His voice had been enough to set her off, the anger spilling out in a torrent of accusations.

“You have to help him,” she had hissed, her voice trembling with desperation.

Her father had stood at the foot of the bed, his hands resting on the smooth wood frame, his face unreadable. “You know it’s not that simple, Margaret.”

Margaret had risen to her feet, her grief and fury spilling over. “What do you mean it’s not simple? You have that book of yours. You’ve been obsessed with it my whole life! Don’t tell me you can’t do something. Don’t tell me it’s useless!”

“It’s not useless,” Malcolm had said softly, his gaze shifting to her husband’s pale, unmoving face. “But it’s not what you think it is. There’s always a cost.”

Margaret’s voice had risen, echoing in the small, private room. “I don’t care about the cost! He’s dying, and you’re standing here, talking about balance and rules. What kind of father are you? What kind of man just… watches this happen?”

Malcolm had looked at her then, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Then explain it to me!” Margaret had screamed. “Explain why you won’t save him. Explain why you won’t even try!”

But he hadn’t. He had just stood there, his hands tightening on the bed frame, his gaze falling to the floor. “There are things you don’t know, Margaret. Things I can’t—”

“Can’t or won’t?” she spat, her voice like ice.

He had flinched at that, his shoulders stiffening. “You don’t understand the balance. You don’t understand what using the book does. It’s not just power—it’s responsibility. It’s a weight I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

“I don’t care about your balance,” she had snarled. “I don’t care about your cryptic warnings and your riddles. You’re just a coward. You always have been.”

Her words had struck him hard, but he hadn’t replied. Instead, he had turned to the book he carried, its ancient leather cover worn and smooth. He had opened it, his hands trembling slightly, and looked at the blank page as if searching for something.

Margaret watched him, her breath hitching, hope and dread warring within her. Then he closed the book with a quiet sigh and turned away.

“I’m sorry,” he had said, his voice heavy. “But this is not something I can change. The balance must be maintained.”

Margaret had followed him into the hallway, her fury boiling over. “You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say? You let him die, and all you can say is you’re sorry?”

He had stopped, his back to her, his voice quiet. “If I could save him without breaking everything else, I would. But you don’t understand what you’re asking. You never have.”

She had watched him walk away, her heart breaking in her chest. And in that moment, she hadn’t just lost her husband. She had lost her father, too.

Margaret rubbed her temples, the horrible memory raw even after all these years.

She had never forgiven Malcolm for his refusal to act, for his vague talk of balance and cost. And deep down, she wasn’t sure she believed him. There had always been a part of her that suspected he could have done something, that maybe he had chosen not to—or worse, that he had caused it somehow, that his obsession with that damned book had set it all in motion.

And now, Eleanor had the book.

Margaret’s stomach twisted with dread. She had tried so hard to keep Eleanor away from it, to shield her from Malcolm’s world. But she had failed.

The key was gone, and the book was open. Margaret could only hope that her daughter would be smarter than she had been, wiser than her father.

She closed her eyes, her voice barely a whisper in the empty room.

“Just… be careful.”

——

When Thomas knocked on her office door, Eleanor was at her desk, staring at the words on the ancient book’s page.

“Hey, got a minute?”

She quickly closed the book, her heart racing. “Come in,” she said, forcing her voice to sound normal.

Thomas stepped inside, his expression somewhere between nervous and excited. “So, you know that patron I’ve been helping with the Louis Armstrong mentor mystery? Well, I told him about Charles Dupont, and he was ecstatic. Like, over the moon about the details we found.”

Eleanor nodded cautiously, keeping her face neutral. “That’s good, right? It’s nice to see someone appreciate the work.”

“It is, but, uh… he wants to meet you.”

Eleanor froze. “Meet me?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, shifting awkwardly. “He’s here now, in the atrium. He said he wanted to thank you in person and maybe talk about the research. I told him you’re the one who pieced everything together.”

Eleanor’s stomach dropped. “Thomas, I don’t—” She stopped, scrambling for an excuse. “I’m not good with strangers. You know that. Besides, I’m unsure what I’d say to him.”

Thomas frowned. “Why not? You’re the expert on Dupont now. You found all those articles about his restaurant, his love of jazz, and his support for musicians in New Orleans. You even verified his connection to Louis Armstrong.”

Eleanor’s heart raced. “Yes, but…” She hesitated. How could she explain that she had nothing to back up the initial dinner between Dupont and Armstrong—the dinner that had set her entire search in motion? She hadn’t found it in a database or a dusty archive. It had come from the book, appearing as though conjured from thin air.

Thomas smiled, trying to reassure her. “Come on, Eleanor. He’s nice. His name’s—”

“No,” she interrupted sharply, holding up a hand. “Don’t tell me his name.”

Thomas blinked, taken aback. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to know it,” she said, her voice clipped. “He’s just a patron, Thomas. That’s all he is. That’s all they ever are.”

Thomas frowned, clearly confused. “But… he’s a person. And he’s grateful to you. It wouldn’t hurt to know his name.”

Eleanor shook her head, her grip tightening on the edge of her desk. “No. As soon as they have names, they become people. Strangers. And I don’t… I’m not comfortable with that.”

Thomas hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. He’s ‘the patron.’ But he still wants to meet you. Just for a few minutes.”

Eleanor exhaled slowly, her nerves jangling. She didn’t want to do this but didn’t want to seem rude. “Fine,” she said finally, pushing back her chair. “I’ll come down. But if this goes sideways, I’m holding you responsible.”

Thomas grinned, relieved. “Deal.”

——

The atrium was quiet as Eleanor descended the stairs, her footsteps muffled by the carpeted steps. The morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the rows of shelves.

She spotted the patron immediately.

Thomas hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was striking—tall, with dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and sharp, intelligent eyes. He wore a tailored suit that somehow looked casual and elegant. He turned toward her as she approached, his smile warm and inviting.

“Ms. Finch,” he said, his voice smooth but tinged with genuine gratitude. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ve heard so much about your work.”

Eleanor hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh, I… It’s not much. Just research.”

“Just research?” he said, his smile widening. “Thomas here says you’re the one who unearthed Charles Dupont’s story. That’s far more than ‘just research.’ Dupont was a remarkable man, and thanks to you, I can finally piece together the full scope of his influence on Louis Armstrong.”

Eleanor glanced at Thomas, who was beaming with pride, and then back at the man. “I’m glad you found the information helpful.”

“I did,” the man said, stepping closer. “The details you uncovered about The Velvet Spoon, Dupont’s mentorship of local musicians, his passion for jazz—all of it is extraordinary. But the dinner—how did you find out about the dinner?”

Eleanor’s stomach tightened.

She managed a weak smile. “I… It was just a hunch. A starting point. I didn’t find anything to confirm it, but it seemed logical to pursue.”

The man tilted his head, studying her. “Logical,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. His eyes seemed to flicker with something she couldn’t quite place—curiosity, maybe, or recognition.

Eleanor resisted the urge to fidget. She felt exposed under his gaze, as though he could see straight through her.

“Regardless of how you found it,” he said, his tone kind, “you’ve brought an important piece of history to light. I’m grateful for your work, Ms. Finch. Truly.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing.

“Do you mind if we stay in touch?” he asked. “I’d love to share anything else I uncover and perhaps consult with you if I hit any roadblocks.”

Eleanor hesitated, her instinct to retreat warring with a strange pull to agree. Finally, she nodded. “Of course. I’d be happy to help.”

The man extended his hand, and she shook it, his grip firm but gentle. His touch was warm, his skin smooth yet solid, grounding. She noticed the slight pressure of his fingers, the way his palm enveloped hers. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, but it unnerved her, the contact amplifying the intensity of his presence. She caught herself glancing at his eyes again—the sharp, intelligent gleam in them unsettled her. It wasn’t threatening, but it carried a weight, as though he saw more than most.

As he walked away, Eleanor let out a long breath, her heart still racing.

Thomas nudged her playfully. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

Eleanor gave him a faint smile, but her mind was elsewhere. The man, the patron, had been striking, yes, but there had been something else about him. Something she couldn’t quite put into words.

And the way he’d spoken about the dinner… It was as though he knew it had come from somewhere beyond her usual methods.

Eleanor glanced back toward her office, where the book lay waiting. The sense of unease she’d felt all week hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had only grown stronger.

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