I found a slip of paper tucked in the bottom drawer of my desk: He knows. Run.
Emily Clarke, could you check the catalogue cards in drawer three? It looks like the students have mixed everything up again, the library director, Angela Peters, said, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. And please dont stay late tonight; youve been working far too many hours lately.
Will do, Angela, Emily replied, barely looking up from her screen. Just need to finish the electronic inventory of the new acquisitions.
Angela shook her head, slipped out of the cataloguing department, and clicked her sensible shoes against the old oak floorboards. The town library occupies what used to be the Victorian grammar school on Church Street high ceilings, ornamental plasterwork, and floorboards that creak the moment a visitor steps in, announcing their arrival long before they appear.
Emily had indeed been lingering after closing for the past three weeks, but not because she was a workaholic. At home, no one was waiting for her since Simon left, taking not only his belongings but also the warmth that had filled their modest flat. Now the only sound was the ticking of the ancient mantel clock shed inherited from her grandmother.
At the library, however, there was always something to do. Emily loved the smell of books, the rustle of pages, even the dust that stubbornly settled on the top shelves despite the best efforts of the cleaning lady, Aunt Clara. Here she felt useful and in her element.
Emily, dont forget we have a writers visit tomorrow, called out Olivia, the junior librarian from the membership desk, popping her head in the doorway. We need to set up the small hall and print the posters.
Ive got the posters ready, Emily, Olivia said, smiling. Theyre in the top drawer of my desk. Could you fetch them? I still have to finish the catalogue.
Emily nodded and turned back to her massive oak desk, pulling out the upper drawer and handing Olivia a folder.
Whats this? Olivia asked, pulling out a loose sheet along with the folder.
What? Emily turned to her.
Looks like a note. Must have fallen out of the folder.
Olivia handed her a folded schoolpaper sheet. Emily unfolded it and read three words written in a hurried hand: He knows. Run.
Her heart skipped a beat. The first thought was that it was a joke, but deep down she sensed otherwise. She folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of her cardigan.
Just some nonsense, she said, trying to keep her tone flat. Probably a student who dropped it. Theyre always passing notes around here.
Olivia shrugged.
Alright, Ill go hang the posters.
When the door closed behind Olivia, Emily took the note out again. He knows. Run. Who was it for? What did it mean? And who had written it?
The handwriting looked familiar, but Emily couldnt place it. It didnt match any of her colleagues scripts. Could it have been Simons? Why would he write something like that? Their breakup had been quiet, almost civil. He simply said he no longer felt the same and that theyd be better as friendsplain and predictable, like something out of a cheap romance novel.
She tried to focus on the catalogue, but the note kept tugging at her thoughts. By the end of the day she finally finished the indexing, handed the keys to the night guard, and stepped out into a damp October evening. A light drizzle fell, and the streetlamps glowed like yellow smudges in the fog.
It was a fifteenminute walk home, a route she usually enjoyed: past the old park, through a cosy courtyard with a swing set where children played in the daylight. Tonight, however, every shadow seemed threatening, every sound made her startle. He knows. Run. From whom should she run?
She entered the flat building and breathed a sigh of relief. The hallway was quiet and bright. She climbed to the third floor, opened the door to her flat, and was greeted by the usual silence, the faint scent of cinnamon from the sachet shed hung by the entrance to mask the emptiness left by Simon.
She slipped off her coat, hung it on the peg, and made her way to the kitchen. She put the kettle on, rummaged out yesterdays salad from the fridge, and, though she didnt feel like eating, she needed something to keep her mind occupied.
The phone rang, and her breath caught. The display showed Mum.
Hi, Mum, she answered, trying to sound calm.
Emily, love, how are you? her mothers voice trembled. Ive felt uneasy all day. Is everything alright with you?
All good, just tired from work, Emily lied. Her mother was already worrying enough about the breakup; she didnt need a mysterious note to add to her stress.
Why dont you come over this weekend? Ill bake a cake, you could use a break
Maybe, Mum. Lets talk on Friday, okay?
After the call Emily felt even lonelier. The tea went cold, and she didnt want to watch TV. She unfolded the note again, staring at the three words.
A knock came at the door. It was ten past nine. Who could be calling at this hour? She tiptoed to the peephole. On the landing stood Michael Stevens, the elderly neighbour from upstairs.
Whos there? she called, just in case.
Its me, Michael. Open up, love.
She opened the door but didnt remove the chain.
Sorry for the late visit, he said, a little embarrassed. My pipes leaking. Is there any water getting into your flat?
No, its dry here, Emily replied, relieved. Thanks for letting me know.
Good. Ive called a plumber; theyll be here tomorrow.
When Michael left, Emily realised shed been panicking over a note that was probably just a prank by some student. Her imagination, fuelled by the detective novels shed been devouring lately, had run away with her.
She tried to settle down for sleep, but the night was restless. Every creak, every distant car sounded ominous.
Morning came bruised and tired. After a quick breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, she headed back to work. The day promised to be busy: the authors visit, setting up the hall, and still processing the new arrivals.
The library buzzed with activity. Angela was issuing orders, Olivia was arranging chairs in the small hall, and Aunt Clara was scrubbing the floors with a look of displeasure.
Emily, a man asked for you earlier, Aunt Clara announced as Emily passed by. Tall bloke in a dark coat. I told him you werent in yet.
A man? Emily paused. Did he say who he was?
Nope. He said hed come back later.
The phrase He knows. Run flashed through her mind again. Who was this stranger? What did he want? She tried to steady herself, reminding herself that it could be any patron or a publishing rep.
She settled at her desk, focusing on the computer. Half an hour later someone knocked.
Come in, Emily called, eyes still on the screen.
The door opened to reveal a tall man in a dark coat. Emilys breath caught. It was Andrew, a former classmate of Simons, someone shed only met a handful of times over the years.
Hello, Emily, he said, closing the door behind him. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.
About what? her voice rose a little, edged with nervousness.
Andrew glanced around, as if checking that no one else was listening, then took a seat opposite her.
Its about Simon, he began quietly. And about you.
Were over, Emily snapped. If you have business with him, go to him directly.
Its not about the breakup. Its much more serious.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
Did you get my note? He knows. Run?
Emily felt a chill run down her spine.
Your note? she asked. What does it mean?
Andrew looked nervous, eyes flicking toward the doorway.
It means Simon isnt who he says he is. He knows Ive been digging, and now he thinks youre in on it.
In on what? Emily asked, bewildered.
The scheme hes part of. He pulled his phone from his pocket and showed her a photograph. In it, Simon was speaking with a man outside a nondescript grey building.
Do you know that place? she asked.
Its the office of Eastbridge Investments. Youve probably seen the headlines they swindled hundreds of retirees with bogus highinterest accounts and vanished with the money.
And Simon?
He works at a car dealership, right? Thats a front. Hes actually one of the organisers behind the scam.
Emily shook her head, disbelief evident.
He couldnt be. Hes a decent bloke, loves cooking on weekends, collects old vinyls.
I thought the same, Andrew said, sighing. Ive known Simon since we were kids. I stumbled onto his involvement a few weeks ago and started looking into it. Five years ago he was linked to a similar fraud in Newcastle, but he slipped away, changed his name, and moved here.
The room seemed to spin. The man shed lived with for four years, the one whod filled her flat with the scent of cinnamon, might be a fraudster preying on pensioners?
Why did you write run? Emily asked, voice shaking.
Because hes dangerous, Andrew replied, eyes solemn. When I started asking questions, people started watching me. The person who tried to expose them before me ended up in a traffic accident.
Emily remembered the uneasy feeling shed had that evening, as if someone were watching her. Was it paranoia, or real surveillance?
What should I do? she asked, lost.
Leave town, at least for a while, until things settle down. Do you have somewhere to go?
She thought of her mother, living in a small market town three hundred miles away.
Yes, I can go there.
Then pack a bag and leave today. Ill contact you when its safe to return.
When Andrew left, Emily sat staring at the empty desk, the weight of the revelation pressing down. It felt as though she had been thrust into the very detective novel she loved to read. Yet the photographs and the note were real.
She went to Angelas office.
I need to take immediate leave. Family emergency, Emily said.
Angela looked concerned.
Is everything alright? You look pale.
My mothers ill, Emily replied, forcing a smile. I need to be with her.
Of course, go. Well manage the writers event without you.
Emily gathered the essentials in a small suitcase: passport, a few pounds, a change of clothes. She called her mother.
Mum, Im on the evening train, she said.
Is everything okay? her mother asked, anxiety in her voice.
Just a bit tired, love. Ill see you soon.
As she passed the bookcase, a framed photo caught her eyeher and Simon on a sunny beach, both grinning. She lingered, studying his face, wondering how much she truly knew.
A knock sounded at the flats door. Emilys heart hammered. She crept to the peephole. On the landing stood Simon himself.
He spoke softly, Emily, I know youre home. Please open the door; we need to talk.
She stood frozen, the notes words echoing in her head.
Its about Andrew, Simon began, his voice earnest, He came to you today, right? Hes twisted the story. Im not involved in any fraud. I was undercover, working with the police to bring Eastbridge down. Andrews one of the suspects, trying to divert the investigation onto me.
Emilys mind raced. Could it be true?
Im scared, she whispered. I dont know who to trust.
Simon softened, Come inside, Ill leave a note with the details, then step back. You can decide what to do.
He slipped away, leaving a folded sheet on the hallway floor. Emily picked it up, unfolded it, and read: Emily, Im working undercover. Andrew is a suspect. Dont trust him. Call me, Ill explain everything. Simon.
Two notes now lay in her hands: He knows. Run and Dont trust him. Both felt true and false at once.
She dialed her old friend Claire, who works in the Crown Prosecution Service.
Claire, I need a favour, Emily said. Can you look into a guy and a man? Its urgent.
Tell me everything when we meet, Claire replied, concern in her tone.
They met an hour later in a modest café a few blocks away. Claire listened without interruption, then sipped her tea thoughtfully.
I can check both Simon and Andrew, she said after a pause. Itll take some time, but well get to the bottom of it.
What should I do meanwhile? Emily asked.
Go to your mothers. Its safer there while we sort this out.
That evening Emily boarded the eastbound train, watching the city lights recede. She thought of how, only yesterday, shed been a librarian pining after an ex, and now she was caught up in a reallife thriller.
The trains phone rang; it was Claire.
Emily, Ive got news, she said. Simon really is undercover. Hes been working with the economic crime unit. Andrew, on the other hand, is indeed one of the founders of Eastbridge.
So he was using me, Emily whispered.
Yes, trying to pull you into his web.
What now?
Come back. Simons looking for you. He wants to explain everything in person.
Emily got off at the next station and caught a return train. At the bustling railway station, Simon waited, eyes weary but hopeful.
Thank heavens youre safe, he said, pulling her into a brief hug. I couldnt tell you before; any leak could have cost lives.
You broke my heart, Emily said, a bitter smile forming. You disappeared without a word.
Im sorry, he replied, tears in his eyes. I was protecting you.
They stood amid the clatter of trains, two people divided by months of mistrust, yet both yearning for a chance to rebuild.
I dont know if I can trust you again, Emily admitted.
I understand, Simon said quietly. Give me time. Ill prove it.
They walked back to her flat together. On the way, Simon recounted how hed infiltrated Eastbridge, how hed been forced to leave to keep her out of danger, and how the operation was now nearing its end.
And Andrew? Emily asked.
Already in custody. The case is closing.
At her doorstep, Emily hesitated.
I need space to think, she said.
Take all the time you need, Simon replied, his voice gentle.
She closed the door, leaning against it, two crumpled notes on the kitchen table: He knows. Run and Dont trust him. Both had been true and false in their own way.
She walked to the window, gazed at the twilight city glittering below, and realised that, for the first time in months, she actually had a choice.
If you enjoyed this tale of unexpected twists, feel free to share your thoughts and suggest how youd see Emily and Simons story end.
