The old bookstore smelled of dust and cracked leather, its shelves leaning under the weight of forgotten stories. Marian had been here many times, but tonight, she noticed something odd—the ledger behind the counter was open to today’s date, yet Mr. Alden, the owner, had disappeared hours ago.
She studied the names scribbled inside and saw the last recorded sale: a rare edition of Poe’s collected works. But when she scanned the shop, the book still sat on display.
A creak from the storeroom made her pulse quicken. Slowly, she stepped inside and froze. Mr. Alden lay unconscious, a small brass key in his hand. Marian bent down and realized—the ledger wasn’t just a record of sales. It was a list of debts. And the last name? James Rowley.
She turned as the doorbell jingled. A man entered, his gaze darting to the ledger. “Funny,” Marian said, holding up the brass key. “Mr. Alden never listed cash payments, did he?”
Rowley bolted, but the police were already waiting.
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