Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 11)

The morning after the package arrived felt unreal—too quiet, too still, too watchful. Snow had stopped falling, leaving behind a white sheet across the Brooklyn streets, reflecting the pale sun like a cold mirror. Evelyn stood by the window of her apartment, staring down at the street with a numbness that felt heavier than fear itself.

She had barely slept.

Rowan had stayed on her couch for safety—though neither of them mentioned it aloud. It was unspoken, instinctive, necessary. A detective's presence wasn’t a luxury now; it was survival.

When Rowan walked into the living room, hair damp from a quick shower, she didn’t turn around.

She simply said:

“They know where I live.”

Rowan exhaled softly.

“I know.”

“It means they’ve been here. Watching me.” She swallowed. “Probably for a while.”

He didn’t argue. That terrified her more than anything.

He took a step closer.

“Evelyn, look at me.”

She turned, slowly.

“We’re not going to let them scare you out of your own life. But we have to figure out what this person wants. And we need to understand why now—why December, why the packages, why the messages.”

Evelyn rubbed her hands together. The memory of the wooden snowflake ornament still lingered in her palms.

“Do you think,” she whispered, “that the person who abandoned me in the woods is the same person who sent this?”

Rowan paused.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Or someone working with them. Someone who knows your origins intimately.”

She closed her eyes, stunned by the wave of grief and anger.

“My adoptive mother protected me from something,” Evelyn murmured. “But from who? And why?”

Rowan grabbed his coat.

“We’re going to Vermont.”

Her eyes shot open. “What?”

“The report said you were found near a cabin. That’s our next stop. We need the original file. Maybe something was removed from the digital copy. Old paper records often hold more.”

She hesitated. The idea of returning to the state where she’d been abandoned as an infant unsettled her.

But truth had momentum now.

It was dragging her with it.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Let’s go.”

---

Two Hours Later — Vermont Highway

The drive north was long and silent. Snow-covered trees lined the roadside, branches drooping under winter’s weight. The deeper they went into Vermont, the thinner the population became, houses scattered like lonely islands in a frozen sea.

Evelyn watched the horizon.

The woods.

The mountains.

The endless, quiet cold.

“This road,” Rowan said suddenly, “my dad used to patrol it.”

“Do you remember anything about the case?”

“No,” Rowan said. “I was a kid. And he didn’t talk about work. But Vermont… dad always said it held ‘unfinished stories.’”

The phrase sent chills racing down Evelyn’s spine.

---

Local Sheriff's Office — Vermont

Inside the sheriff’s office, warmth hit Evelyn immediately, along with the smell of old paperwork and stale coffee. Deputy Clarke, an older man with tired eyes and a thick winter beard, greeted them.

“Officer Rowan,” he nodded at the detective badge Rowan displayed. “And you must be Ms. Hart. Heard you were coming.”

Evelyn blinked.

“Heard?”

Clarke nodded slowly.

“We got a call this morning from someone asking if the 1996 Hart case files were still here.”

Rowan stiffened.

“What did you tell them?”

“That we don’t share case information with the public.”

“Describe the caller,” Rowan said sharply.

Clarke hesitated.

“It was a woman. Calm. Soft voice. Asked only one question then hung up.”

Evelyn’s heart lurched.

A woman.

A woman was the one following her.

A woman who knew her.

Or worse—

a woman who had once left her to die.

“Do you still have the physical files?” Rowan asked.

Clarke nodded. “Follow me.”

He led them down a narrow hallway to a storage room. Dusty shelves filled with boxes lined the walls. He pulled out a worn beige folder marked:

HART — INFANT — 1996.

Evelyn’s breath caught.

Rowan laid the file on a table and opened it carefully.

Inside were the original photographs.

The blanket.

The cabin.

The infant—Evelyn—in Rowan’s father’s arms.

Evelyn touched the photo with trembling fingers.

“Is that… me?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Rowan said softly.

Clarke cleared his throat.

“There’s something else in the file. Something the digital copy didn’t include.”

He slid out a small envelope.

Old.

Yellowed.

With tears in its edges.

Evelyn’s name wasn’t on it—but a name was.

MARGARET HART.

Her adoptive mother.

“My mom?” Evelyn whispered. “Why would there be a letter for her?”

Rowan opened the envelope carefully and unfolded the paper inside.

The handwriting—

strong, feminine, deliberate.

Rowan read aloud:

“Margaret,

Take care of her.

She cannot return to us.

When winter comes again, she will seek the truth.

But she must not find me.

— L”

Evelyn’s knees nearly gave out.

Rowan caught her.

Clarke stepped back silently, giving them space.

“Rowan…” she whispered, “she knew. My adoptive mother… she knew who left me.”

“And she hid it,” Rowan whispered. “To protect you.”

Evelyn shook her head violently.

“No. No. There’s something wrong. If this woman—‘L’—didn’t want to be found, why send me packages now? Why watch me?”

Rowan’s face paled.

“Because the letter says: When winter comes again… she will seek the truth.”

Evelyn stared at him.

“This is December. Winter. The same conditions as the night you were abandoned.”

Rowan took a slow, cold breath.

“She knew,” he whispered. “She knew you’d start digging now. And she’s ahead of us.”

Suddenly Clarke’s radio crackled violently.

“Clarke, we’ve got movement near the old highway cabin—someone broke in.”

Evelyn froze.

“The cabin?” Rowan asked.

Clarke nodded.

Rowan’s hand closed around Evelyn’s.

“She’s there,” he said.

“I know it.”

Evelyn felt her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

They were close.

Closer than ever.

And whoever “L” was—

she wasn’t running anymore.

She was waiting.