Chapter 2: The Past She Refuses to Name

The Greyhound bus smelled like stale coffee and broken dreams, and Maya had been on it for eight hours. She'd chosen the bus over flying—harder to track, easier to disappear into. Old habits died hard, and the habit of covering her tracks had been beaten into her with such precision that it had become second nature.

She kept her face turned toward the window, watching the landscape shift from urban sprawl to rural coastline. Every time someone walked down the aisle, her muscles tensed. Every time the bus stopped, she calculated exit routes. The woman beside her had tried to make conversation somewhere around Portsmouth, but Maya had perfected the art of the polite shutdown. Smile. Nod. Return to staring out the window until they get the message.

Don't let anyone in. Don't let anyone close enough to ask questions. Don't let anyone see the cracks.

The bus pulled into Moonlight Cove just after three in the afternoon, and Maya's first thought was that the town looked like it had been frozen in time somewhere around 1985. The bus station was nothing more than a bench and a faded sign in front of a mom-and-pop grocery store. Main Street stretched out before her, a postcard-perfect vision of coastal Maine—weather-worn storefronts, American flags snapping in the salt-tinged breeze, and flower boxes that somehow still bloomed despite the October chill.

It was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone. Where newcomers were noticed. Where a woman running from her past would stand out like blood on snow.

Maya's stomach twisted. This was a mistake.

But she'd already spent the last of her cash on the bus ticket, and the attorney's office was just three blocks away according to the map on her phone. She shouldered her duffel bag and started walking, keeping her head down, making herself as invisible as possible.

She made it exactly two blocks before someone called out to her.

"You must be Eleanor's granddaughter."

Maya froze mid-step. She turned slowly to find an older woman standing in the doorway of a bookshop, arms crossed, studying her with the kind of intensity usually reserved for specimens under a microscope. The woman had silver hair cut in a sharp bob and eyes that missed nothing.

"I don't—" Maya started.

"You look just like her. Same eyes. Same stubborn set to your jaw." The woman stepped onto the sidewalk, and Maya had to fight the instinct to back away. "I'm Dorothy Chen. I own the bookshop. I was friends with your grandmother."

Was. Past tense. Because her grandmother was dead, and Maya hadn't even known until yesterday. Guilt crashed over her in waves.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Dorothy continued, her voice softening. "Eleanor was a good woman. The best. She talked about you, you know. Right up until the end."

Maya's throat tightened. "She did?"

"Every damn day." Dorothy's gaze sharpened. "Though she never mentioned why you stayed away so long. Want to tell me what kind of trouble you're running from?"

The question hit like a slap. Maya's defenses slammed into place. "I'm not running from anything. I'm here about the inn."

"Uh-huh." Dorothy didn't look convinced. "Word of advice, sweetheart—this town talks. People are going to ask questions. You might want to figure out your story before they start filling in the blanks themselves."

Maya adjusted her bag and forced herself to meet Dorothy's eyes. "My story is my business."

"Fair enough." Dorothy pulled a business card from her apron pocket and pressed it into Maya's hand. "But when you're ready to talk—and you will be, this town has a way of excavating secrets—you know where to find me. Eleanor would have wanted someone looking out for you."

Before Maya could respond, Dorothy disappeared back into her shop, leaving Maya standing alone on the sidewalk with a business card and the unsettling feeling that she'd just failed some kind of test.

She found the law office tucked between a hardware store and a diner called Sal's. The building was old but well-maintained, with a brass plaque that read "Westbrook & Associates" in elegant script. Maya climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, her heart hammering harder with each step.

Caroline Westbrook was exactly what Maya expected—mid-fifties, impeccably dressed in a navy suit, reading glasses perched on her nose. What Maya didn't expect was the warmth in her smile when she looked up from her desk.

"Ms. Reeves. Thank you for coming so quickly." Caroline gestured to a leather chair across from her desk. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"I'm fine." Maya sat, gripping her bag in her lap like a shield. "You said there were conditions to the inheritance."

Caroline opened a manila folder, and Maya caught a glimpse of official-looking documents. "Yes. Your grandmother's will is quite specific. She left you the Tidewater Inn and all its contents, along with a modest sum of money to help with initial expenses. However, you must operate the inn for a minimum of six months. If you close the business, sell the property, or abandon it before that time, everything will be liquidated and donated to the Moonlight Cove Historical Society."

"Why?" The word came out sharper than Maya intended. "Why would she do that?"

Caroline's expression softened. "I asked Eleanor the same question when she revised her will six months ago. She said she wanted to give you a reason to stay. A reason to put down roots. She said you'd understand when the time came."

Six months ago. Right around the time Maya had started hiding money in a tampon box, planning her escape. How had her grandmother known?

"There's more," Caroline continued. She pulled out a sealed envelope with Maya's name written in shaky handwriting across the front. "She left this for you. I was instructed to give it to you only after you'd agreed to the terms."

Maya stared at the envelope like it might bite. Her grandmother's handwriting. The same handwriting that used to leave notes in her lunchbox when she was a kid. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think.

She'd forgotten that. Or maybe she'd buried it, along with everything else she couldn't afford to remember.

"I need to think about this," Maya said.

"Of course. But I should mention—the inn has been closed for two weeks. There are bookings starting next weekend that will need to be honored or refunded. Your grandmother had a full calendar through the holiday season."

Maya's mind raced. Bookings meant people. Guests. Conversations. Questions about where she came from and why she was here. Everything she'd been trying to avoid.

But it also meant structure. Purpose. Six months in a place he would never think to look. Six months to figure out who she was without fear as her constant companion.

She reached across the desk and took the envelope. The paper felt fragile in her hands, like it might crumble to dust.

"I'll do it," she heard herself say. "Six months."

Caroline smiled and slid a set of keys across the desk. "The inn is on Lighthouse Road. You can't miss it—it's the blue Victorian with white trim overlooking the harbor. I'll have the paperwork ready for you to sign tomorrow."

Maya pocketed the keys and stood, clutching the envelope to her chest. She made it all the way to the door before Caroline called after her.

"Ms. Reeves? One more thing. The inn hasn't been empty since your grandmother passed. There's a handyman who's been maintaining the property—Finn Callahan. He has a key. Eleanor trusted him completely, and I think you'll find him... helpful."

Something in Caroline's tone made Maya pause. "What aren't you telling me?"

Caroline hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Your grandmother's death was sudden, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. She'd been asking questions in the weeks before she died. About your mother. About the night she disappeared twenty years ago." Caroline's eyes met Maya's. "I don't know what Eleanor discovered, but I think she meant for you to find it. Whatever it is, Finn might be able to help."

The room tilted. Maya gripped the doorframe. "My mother drowned. It was an accident."

"Was it?" Caroline's expression was maddeningly neutral. "Your grandmother didn't think so."

Maya fled down the stairs and out onto Main Street, her grandmother's letter burning like a brand against her chest. The past she'd spent ten years refusing to name was waiting for her in a blue Victorian overlooking the harbor.

And apparently, so was a handyman named Finn Callahan who knew secrets about a night Maya had spent twenty years trying to forget.

Some inheritances, she was learning, came with ghosts.

And some ghosts demanded to be named.