Page 49 of Whisked Away
Dean’s voice softens slightly. “Look, I get it. But you need to think with your head for once. We can’t afford another incident, and you know what the consequences are for you if something happens.”
When Ethan finally speaks again, his voice is full of defeat. It makes me want to throw all my suspicions aside and jump forward to defend him. “I know. I understand. I just… I wish things could be different. I wish I could tell her everything.”
“You can’t,” Dean says firmly, all gentlenessgone. “Not unless you want to risk everything—for all of us. Remember what’s at stake here. It’s not just about you.”
I lean around the corner to see Ethan. He’s slumped, defeated, his face lowered. It makes me want to run to him. Though now, I’m not sure I even know him. A twig snaps under my foot, and I freeze.
Ethan’s head jerks up. For a moment, I could swear his eyes glow in the dim light, like a cat’s catching a streetlamp’s reflection. But that’s impossible. My heart hammers against my ribs, so hard it’s painful.
“We should go inside,” Dean mutters, and the two men disappear through the bakery’s back door.
I lean against the wall as though it might hold me up, my mind whirling. The Ethan in that article, the one Dean was warning about—it doesn’t match the man I thought I knew. Or does it? Those gentle hands that caressed me so tenderly last night—are they the same ones that caused destruction and harm?
I don’t know who Ethan Hart is, really. Or what secrets Magnolia Cove is harboring.
With more questions than answers, I walk back up the path toward the B&B. The warmth and joy I felt with Ethan—the thing that made me want to run away from my life and start over with him here—has been replaced by a cold, gnawing doubt.
I’m missing something crucial. Something that would help this all make sense. But one thing is clear—there’s more to Ethan Hart than meets the eye.
I pause on the B&B’s porch. A Magnolia tree shudders in the wind, its dark, glossy leaves glimmering. I have two more nights left on the island, then I leave for the real world. For real this time. But I can’t go my entire life without knowing the story here. If I only have hours left, I’m going to use them todiscover whatever secret is hiding behind Magnolia Cove’s picture-perfect facade.
Somehow, the Magnolia Cove Library smells like cinnamon. The entire town seems to hold the scents of a comforting grandmother’s house. The library even has stained-glass windows that allow softly glowing, colorful light to dance in patterns on the rug.
I’ve walked past this place a dozen times, meaning to stop in, but it’s only now, with questions tugging at my heart, that I finally do.
I approach the front desk, where a librarian with her hair French-braided and a cardigan punctuated with colorful pins sits typing at a computer. The pins say things like ‘prose before bros’ and ‘I like big books and I cannot lie.’
I’m smiling when she turns toward me.
“Nice pins.”
“Thanks. I make them myself.”
“You could give the New York City librarians some ideas.”
The woman’s smile widens, and she looks me up and down. “New York City, huh? You must be Alex Sinclair. I’m Rihanna. Zoe has told me all about you.”
“She’s probably made me sound more colorful than I actually am.”
Rihanna snorts. “She keeps us on our toes, that one.”
There’s that “us” again. I’ve noticed the citizens of Magnolia Cove speak about themselves collectively—like they’re more than just neighbors. Dean’s conversation with Ethan runs through my mind once more. There’s some council that’s watching Ethan but also looking out for him. It’s like the answer I’m searching for is right in front of my eyes, but there’s a mirage keeping me from seeing it.
“I was wondering if you have an archive section about Magnolia Cove’s history that I could access?”
Rihanna’s expression falters. She jumps up and comes around the desk. “We do, but I’m afraid we had a severe storm a few months back, and they had to lock it up for renovations, so it’s closed at the moment. A mess, really. I’m bringing it back up at the council meeting next month. And unfortunately, our non-fiction director, Claire, is out of town. We have other resources available, though. I’ll show you what we’ve got, and you can check back with Claire again next week if you want.”
I follow her through the stacks but frown. The bookstore had no history books, the museum didn’t possess basic facts about the town’s founding, and now the library conveniently lacks the same. As we pass down an aisle, I catch sight of a door labeled ‘Local History Archives.’ It’s locked with a glimmering padlock that glows in the stained-glass light. I stop walking. Light dances around the padlock, twirling into the keyhole and flitting around the metal.
“You okay?” Rihanna frowns at me.
“Ah, yeah. Everything’s fine.” I offer her a smile, but she doesn’t return it. Instead, she marches us forward and begins discussing a book she read for her book club and a music festival she plans to attend next month. She speaks at a rapid clip, like she’s attempting to cover something up. But what? There’s nothing to hide in a public library.
I spend the next hour poring over what materials I can access, but something’s not adding up. There are gaps in the town’s records—entire decades missing. What information is available feels completely fake, like someone who’s never taken a class in journalistic integrity made it all up.
My stomach growls, reminding me I’ve skipped not just lunch but dinner. I pack my things and head out, my mind fogged with all my questions. My heart aches for answers thatmight prove Ethan’s innocence. Newspapers run stories with angles all the time. Ethan might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe my heart is just desperate to believe that.
Stepping outside, I’m struck again by how impossibly charming Magnolia Cove is. The flowers along Main Street are as vibrant and in bloom as they were when I first arrived a month ago. A vintage car putters by, its engine purring without a hint of exhaust. A group of boys run down the opposite sidewalk, laughing—Jas among them, I’m glad to see—and when they spill out into the road, the drivers and shop owners only wave at them.
