She finds a note tucked in the drawer of her desk: He knows. Run.
Emily Cartwright, could you check the catalogue cards in the third drawer? It looks like the students have mixed everything up again, says the library director, Diana Harper, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. And please dont stay late tonight. Youve been working too many hours lately.
Right, Ms. Harper, Ill sort it out, Emily nods, barely looking up from her screen. I just need to finish the electronic inventory of the new arrivals.
Diana shakes her head and leaves the cataloguing department, her heels clicking on the creaking parquet. The town library occupies the former grammar school high ceilings, plaster cornices and squeaky floorboards that announce a visitor long before they appear.
Emily has indeed been staying late for the past three weeks, but not because shes a workaholic. Since Mark left, taking his belongings and the warmth that once filled their modest flat, the house has been silent except for the ticking of an old clock inherited from her grandmother.
At the library the work never stops. Emily loves the smell of books, the rustle of pages, even the dust that inevitably settles on the top shelves despite Mrs. Clarkes diligent cleaning. Here she feels useful and in her element.
Emily, dont forget we have a meeting with the author tomorrow, peeks in Grace, the junior librarian from the membership desk. We need to ready the small hall and print the flyers.
Ive got the flyers, Emily smiles. Theyre in the top drawer of my desk. Grab them yourself; I still have the catalogue to finish.
Grace walks over to the massive oak desk where Emily works, pulls out the top drawer and opens a folder of flyers.
Whats this? she asks, pulling out a loose sheet along with the folder.
What? Emily turns to her.
It looks like a note. Must have fallen out of the folder.
Grace hands Emily a folded A5 paper. Emily unfolds it and reads the three words scrawled in a hurried hand: He knows. Run.
Her heart skips a beat. The first thought is that its a joke, but deep down she knows it isnt. She folds the paper carefully and slips it into the pocket of her coat.
Just a prank, she says, trying to keep her voice flat. Probably one of the students dropped it. Theyre always swapping notes around here.
Grace shrugs.
Ill go hang the flyers.
When Grace leaves, the door closing behind her, Emily pulls the note out again. He knows. Run. Who knows what it means and who wrote it?
The handwriting looks familiar, but Emily cant place it. It isnt any of the colleagues she knows. Could it be Mark? Why would he write that? Their split was almost amicable, with no dramajust a quiet admission that he no longer felt the same and that they should remain friends. As banal as a cheap romance novel.
Emily tries to focus on the catalogue, yet the note keeps looping in her mind. By the end of the day she finally finishes the work, hands the keys to the night guard and steps out into a damp October evening. A fine drizzle falls, streetlamps blur into yellow halos in the mist.
The walk home is fifteen minutes. She usually enjoys the route past the old park, through a cosy courtyard with a swing set where children play in the daylight. Tonight every shadow feels threatening, every sound makes her jump. He knows. Run. From whom should she run?
She reaches her flat building, sighs in relief as she steps into the warm, quiet hallway. She climbs to the third floor, opens her front door and finds everything as usual: silence, the faint scent of cinnamon from the sachet she hangs by the entrance to mask Marks absence.
She kicks off her shoes, hangs her coat, and heads to the kitchen. She puts the kettle on, pulls yesterdays salad from the fridge. She isnt hungry, but she needs something to occupy her mind.
The phone rings and she startles. The caller ID shows Mum.
Hi, Mum, Emily says, keeping her tone steady.
Emily, love, how are you? her mothers voice sounds worried. Ive had a strange feeling all day. Is everything alright with you?
Yes, everythings fine, Emily lies. Her mother already worries enough about the breakup; she doesnt need another anonymous note to stress her. Just a bit tired at work.
Why dont you come up for the weekend? Ill bake a cake, you can relax
Maybe, Mum. Lets talk on Friday, okay?
After the call Emily feels even lonelier. The tea goes cold, she doesnt want to eat or watch TV. She pulls the note out again, staring at the three words.
A knock comes at the door. Its ten oclockwho could be here so late? She tiptoes to the peephole and sees an elderly neighbour, George Whitaker, from upstairs.
Whos there? she asks, just in case.
Its me, George. Open up, love.
She opens the door but doesnt remove the chain.
Sorry for the late visit, George says sheepishly. My pipe is leaking. Does any water come down to your flat?
No, everythings dry, Emily replies, relieved. Thanks for checking.
Good, I was worried. Ive called a plumber; theyll come tomorrow.
When George leaves, Emily feels a foolish pang. Shes panicking over a note that was probably slipped in by a prankster student. Her imagination is running wild after all the detective novels shes been devouring lately.
She tries to calm herself and lies down, but sleep wont come. She tosses, listening to every creak. Outside, rain hisses, distant cars pass, ordinary nightcity sounds that now seem ominous.
Morning finds her exhausted. After a quick breakfast and a strong coffee she heads back to work. The day is packed: the authors visit, setting up the hall, finishing the new arrivals.
The library buzzes already. Diana gives orders, Grace arranges chairs in the small hall, and Mrs. Clarke, looking disgruntled, scuffs the floors.
Emily, a man asked for you earlier, Mrs. Clarke says as Emily walks by. Tall, in a dark coat. I told him you werent here yet.
A man? Emily stops. Did he give his name?
No, he just said hed come back later.
The thought of He knows. Run flashes through her mind again. Who is this stranger and what does he want? She tries to steady herself, reminding herself that it could be any visitor or a publishers representative.
She sits at her computer to focus on the catalogue, but half an hour later theres a knock.
Come in, Emily calls without looking up.
The door opens and a tall man in a dark coat steps in. Her breath catches. Its James, a former classmate of Marks, someone shes met only a handful of times.
Hello, Emily, he says, closing the door behind him. Sorry to intrude, but we need to talk.
About what? her voice sounds higher than she intends.
James scans the room as if checking for witnesses, then sits opposite her.
Its about Mark, he says quietly. And about you.
We broke up, Emily replies curtly. If you have business with him, go straight to him.
Its not about the breakup. Its much more serious.
He leans forward, voice dropping.
Did you get my note?
Emily feels a chill run down her spine.
Your note? He knows. Run? What does that mean?
James glances nervously at the door.
It means Mark isnt who he says he is. He knows Ive uncovered something, and now he thinks you might be involved too.
Involved in what? Emilys mind spins.
The Eastminster Investments scam, James pulls a phone from his pocket and shows her a photo. Its Mark talking to a man in front of a drab grey building. It was taken three days ago. Do you know where that is?
Emily shakes her head.
Thats the firm thats been in the newspapers lately, swindling retirees with promised high interest. They vanished with the money.
And Mark? James continues. He works at a car showroom, right? Thats just a cover. Hes one of the organizers.
Emily cant believe it. The man who cooked for her on weekends, collected vintage records, could be a fraudster?
I cant she starts, voice trembling.
I didnt want to believe it either, James interrupts. Weve been friends since school. I stumbled on him there, started digging, and found out he was involved in a similar scheme in Newcastle five years ago, escaped, changed his name, moved here, met you
Emily feels the room spin.
Why did you write Run? she asks, trying to collect her thoughts. Run from what?
Because hes dangerous, Jamess eyes are serious. As soon as I started asking questions, I got watched. Then I learned the person who tried to expose them earlier ended up in a car accident.
Emily remembers the uneasy feeling she had that evening, the sense of being watched.
What should I do? she asks, panic rising.
Get out of town, at least until this blows over. Do you have somewhere to go?
She thinks of her mother, who lives in a small market town three hours away.
Yes, I can.
Pack a bag and leave tonight. Ill contact you when its safe to come back.
When James leaves, Emily sits staring at the empty desk, the reality feeling like a detective story shes lived through. The photographs he showed were real, the note was real.
She walks to Dianas office.
I need to take a few days off for family reasons. Can I have emergency leave?
Diana looks at her, worry in her eyes.
Is everything alright? You look pale.
My mother is ill, Emily lies. I need to be with her.
Of course, go. Well manage the authors talk without you.
Emily gathers the essentials into a small suitcase: passport, some cash, a change of clothes. She calls her mother.
Mum, Im on the evening train tomorrow, heading your way, she says.
Is something wrong? her mothers voice trembles.
No, just missing you.
She passes a bookshelf and stops at a framed photograph of herself and Mark on a sunny beach, smiling. She stares at his face, wondering how she could have been so wrong about him.
A knock sounds at the door. She freezes. Peering through the peephole, she sees Mark standing on the landing.
Her heart thuds in her throat. He knows. Run. She cant move.
Emily, I know youre home, Marks voice is calm, a little tired. Please open the door. We need to talk.
She stays silent, fearing to breathe.
Its about James, Mark continues. He was here today, right? Talking about Eastminster Investments and me?
How does he know? Is someone really watching her?
Emily, listen, its not what you think, his tone softens, pleading. James got the facts wrong. I can explain everything.
She remains silent, her mind racing. Should she flee out the balcony? She lives on the third floor. Call the police? What would she saythat a former partner is at the door demanding a conversation?
Fine, Mark sighs. If you dont want to open, Ill leave a note.
He steps back, the sound of paper rustling follows him up the stairs. After a few minutes, Emily cautiously opens the door. On the floor lies a folded sheet. She picks it up, shuts the door.
The note reads: Emily, Im working undercover. Im investigating the Eastminster case with the police. James is one of the suspects, trying to muddy the waters. Dont trust him. Call me, Ill explain everything. Mark
Emily reads the paper several times. Who should she believe? James, a nearstranger, or Mark, the man she lived with for four years, who now admits hes been hiding a huge part of his life?
She sits on the sofa, holding both notes He knows. Run and Dont trust him. The tangled web of lies and halftruths presses on her. She picks up the phone and dials an old friend, Marina, who works for the Crown Prosecution Service.
Marina, sorry to bother you, Emily begins. I need your help. Can you check a persons background? Its urgent.
What happened? Marinas voice is tense.
Its complicated. Can we meet?
An hour later theyre in a tiny café two streets from Emilys flat. Marina listens without interruption, then taps her finger on the cold cup.
I can look into both Mark and James. Itll take time, but well get to the bottom of it.
What now? Emily asks, desperation in her tone. What should I do?
Go to your mothers, as you planned. Itll be safer while we sort this out.
That evening Emily boards a train heading east. Watching the city lights recede, she thinks of how ordinary she was yesterday, a librarian mourning an exhusband, and how today shes become the heroine of a reallife thriller.
Her phone rings as the train picks up speed. Its Marina.
Emily, Ive found something, Marina says, voice tight. Mark really is undercover. Hes cooperating with the economiccrime unit.
So hes telling the truth? Emilys heart races.
Yes. And James his links to Eastminster are real. Hes one of the founders.
A cold shiver runs down Emilys spine. James tried to use her to pull Mark out of the operation.
What should I do now? she asks, still trying to process.
Come back, Marina advises. Mark is looking for you. Hes worried.
Why didnt he tell me sooner? Emily wonders.
Security, Marina answers. It was a secret operation. Any leak could have blown it. When things got dangerous, he left to protect you.
Emily gets off at the next station and hops on a return train. On the platform she sees Mark waiting, dishevelled, eyes full of anxiety. He lets out a breath of relief when he spots her.
Thank God youre alright, he says.
Why didnt you tell me? Emily fires the first question.
I couldnt, he gestures helplessly. It was a covert task. Any exposure could have ruined everything, and I had to disappear to keep you safe.
Protect me? Emily scoffs, bitter. You broke my heart!
Im sorry, Marks eyes soften. I had no other choice.
They stand on the bustling station, two people divided by months of mistrust and a tangle of lies.
I dont know if I can ever trust you again, Emily admits. Too many falsehoods.
I understand, Mark nods. But I want to make things right, if youll let me.
Emily looks at the man she thought she knew best and realises she still knows very little about him. Perhaps now, with all the cards on the table, they can start anew.
Lets go home, she says. Well talk there.
On the train back, Mark recounts everything: how he infiltrated Eastminster, how he met James and the other conspirators, how leaving her was the hardest decision he ever made.
And now? Emily asks. Is the case closed?
Almost, Mark replies. A few more arrests. James is already in custody.
At her flats doorway, Emily pauses.
I dont know what the future holds. I need time to sort it all out.
I get that, Mark says sadly. Ill wait. How long you need.
He walks away, and Emily steps inside her empty apartment. On the kitchen table lie the two notes: He knows. Run and Dont trust him. Both turned out to be halftruths. Life is messier than any detective novel she ever loved.
She walks to the window, looks out at the city glowing with streetlights. The future is uncertain, but for the first time in weeks she feels she has a choice. That feels like the most important thing of all.
