Her publisher, a relentlessly cheerful man named David, was ecstatic.“Elara! My God, the story is everywhere! We need to fast-track this. A real-life thriller lived by the queen of the genre! We’re talking a seven-figure deal, prime media tours…”
He spread mock-ups of a book cover across his vast desk—a dramatic image of a dark, looming house on a hill, the title in blood-red letters: Havenwood: A True Story of Terror.
Elara stared at it, feeling sick. It was exploitation. It was turning the most profound, terrifying, and ultimately beautiful experience of her life into a cheap commodity.
“No,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.
David’s smile faltered.“No? Elara, this is a goldmine!”
“It’s not a story of terror, David,” she said, pushing the mock-ups away.“It’s a story of survival. And… it’s a love story. That’s the book I’m writing. Not a sensationalized true-crime potboiler.”
The meeting ended with David frustrated and confused, but Elara felt a surge of clarity. She wasn’t that person anymore—the writer who built clever, detached puzzles. She was a woman who had been remade in the fire of a real mystery, and she would tell it with the truth and respect it deserved.
That night, in her silent apartment, her phone buzzed. It was Liam, a video call. His face filled the screen, slightly pixelated, his familiar features a balm to her city-weary soul. He was in the great room at Havenwood, the fire crackling behind him.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a warm rumble.“How’s the jungle?”
“Loud. And lonely.” She smiled, her throat tight.“I miss the quiet.”
“It misses you too.” He shifted the phone, showing her a stack of old, leather-bound books on the table beside him.“Found these in the library. My great-grandmother’s diaries. She was the one who wanted to confess the whole thing, back in the 1920s. The family wouldn’t let her.”
He was sharing his history with her, piece by piece, trusting her with the fragile, human truth behind the legend.
“I told my publisher no today,” she confessed.
His eyebrows lifted.“Yeah?”
“I’m not writing the book they want. I’m writing our book. The real one.”
A slow, proud smile spread across his face.“Good.”
They talked for over an hour. He told her about his plans to start a sustainable forestry program on the land, to finally make the Holt name mean something good. She told him aboutpacking up her apartment, about the strange hollow feeling of dismantling her old life.
“It doesn’t feel like home anymore,” she whispered.
“Then come home,” he said simply.
Two days later, she stood in her empty apartment, the last box taped shut. The echoes of her past life were gone. As she rode the elevator down for the last time, she felt no regret, only a thrilling, forward momentum.
She was leaving the city of glass and noise. She was going back to the hilltop, to the man who had fought for her, to the truth they had uncovered together, and to the story they were just beginning to write. The final page of her old life was turned. The next chapter was waiting.
Chapter 15:
A New Foundation
Spring was beginning to whisper through the mountains. The snow receded, revealing patches of wet, dark earth and the brave green tips of crocuses pushing through. The air held the sweet, damp promise of renewal.
Havenwood was no longer a relic of secrets. The boarded-up window was replaced with clear, new glass. The dust was gone, the floors gleamed, and the great room was filled with the scent of fresh paint and lemon oil. Elara’s typewriter—a vintage manual she’d shipped from the city—now sat on the desk in the study, a stack of filled pages beside it.
She was on the porch, wrapped in a thick sweater, sipping coffee and watching Liam. He was below, near the tree line, working with a small crew to lay the foundation for the new cabin. Not on the cursed ground of the old Holt estate, but on a sunny knoll with a view of the valley—land that was rightfully and cleanly theirs.
The sound of hammers and men’s voices was a music of new beginnings.
Liam looked up, saw her, and waved. Even from this distance, she could see his smile. He said something to his foreman and started up the hill towards her.
This was their life now. Not hiding, not running, but building. He reached the porch, his boots muddy, his face flushed with the cool morning air and hard work.
“The foundation’s set,” he said, coming to stand beside her at the railing. He slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.“Solid. It’ll last a hundred years.”
