Between the Lines

I was following Mr. Jules in the heavy rain, in New York. The city was drowning under a blanket of relentless gray, the kind of rain that soaks you to the bone no matter how fast you walk, run, or how well you cover up. I knew it would rain. The clouds were heavy with it, threatening to burst from the moment I stepped out of my office this morning. Yet, here I was, without an umbrella. Why the hell didn’t I bring one? A detective should be prepared. Always a step ahead. But not today...

The thought gnawed at me as I moved through the crowd, barely keeping Mr. Jules in my sights. I stopped at a newsstand, fumbling for change with damp fingers, and bought a newspaper. The ink ran as I held it over my head, offering pitiful protection from the rain. Who does that? Apparently, me. A guy who should have brought an umbrella.

I glanced at the date on the newspaper—23 October 1952. What the hell? Where did the 21st and 22nd go? I could’ve sworn those days existed. My cases, my life, they all blur together sometimes. Too many nights chasing shadows, too many days staring at the bottom of a glass of whiskey. Always the same story: an angry wife hires me to tail her husband because she’s convinced he’s cheating. Most of the time, she’s right. And today, it’s no different. Except it is.

Now I’m six feet behind Mr. Jules, moving through the rain-slick streets like his shadow. I should be more careful, should watch my steps, but there’s this strange certainty in my gut that he won’t notice me. He’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts, in his own guilt, maybe. And I know—deep down, in that part of my mind that I don’t like to visit—that he’s headed to the train station. I can see it in my head like I’ve been there before. Hell, I know he’s going to jump in front of a train.

But how do I know this? I’ve never met the guy before last week, never seen him in my life. So why does it all feel so damn familiar? These déjà vus keep hitting me, like echoes of a life I’ve lived before. Maybe that’s why I became a detective, chasing down other people’s secrets because my own are too twisted to unravel.

The rest of the night worked out just as I had imagined, with Mr. Jules ending up very dead. He didn’t scream, didn’t cry out—just one clean jump and it was all over. The screech of the train, the dull thud, and then silence. Why didn’t I try to stop him? I don’t know. Maybe I could’ve, if I had tried. But I didn’t. And now that I think of it, I wish I had. There’s this gnawing sense of guilt, like I should have done something, anything, to change the script.

At some point in the train station, just before he made his final move, Mr. Jules threw something into a garbage bin. After the chaos died down, I retrieved it. A note. The paper was crumpled and damp, but the words were clear: Meet me tonight in the same place. It smelled strongly of perfume, the kind that lingers in the air long after someone’s left the room. There was something hauntingly familiar about it, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place it. I had no idea where “the same place” was. It could have been anywhere in this damn city, or nowhere at all.

Feeling more depressed than ever, I headed back to my office. The streets were quieter now, the rain finally letting up, leaving the city slick and gleaming under the streetlights. As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone would be waiting for me when I got there. It wasn’t a dread, though; more like a yearning, a desire to see whoever it was. I let the thought simmer in the back of my mind, like a half-remembered dream.

When I finally reached my office, Minnie, my secretary, greeted me with her usual bright smile. “You’ve got a new customer,” she said, her voice carrying a note of excitement. “And she’s a looker.”

Minnie’s always been good at her job, but our interactions never went beyond the surface. I barely knew anything about her, not even her last name. It occurred to me, standing there, how shallow our relationship was. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe it was because I never let anyone in. But that thought slipped away as I approached my office door and saw a shadowy figure pacing about inside.

The glass was frosted, obscuring the details, but I could tell it was a woman. Something in the way she moved, the silhouette of her form, stirred something deep within me. I pushed the door open, and there she was—the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

Her hair was dark as midnight, cascading over her shoulders in waves that seemed to defy the gloom of the night. Her eyes were a striking green, the kind of green that you could get lost in for hours, like the deep, mysterious heart of a forest. She looked up as I entered, and our eyes met. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just her, standing in my office, and me, feeling as if I had walked into a dream.

“Mr. Mercer?” she asked, her voice smooth and rich, like velvet. “I need your help.”

But then she appeared to change her mind and started again, “I have been waiting for you, Frank.” How the hell did she know my name? But just then, she started yet again, “You are in danger, Mr. Mercer. We all are!”

I frowned, trying to make sense of it. “Hello,” I said, almost automatically. “What’s your name?”

She paused, her eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m Laura Palmer. No, Laura Adams,” she hesitated again, “and finally, Laura Simmons.”

That’s better, I thought, almost reflexively. But why did I think that? Was she trying to hide her real name? And why did I think “Simmons” was better? The question lingered in my mind like an echo, just out of reach.

But just then, she started crying, and as she stepped closer, the scent of her perfume hit me—a perfect match to the one on the note. That’s when she told me Mr. Jules’ wife—the one who had hired me—had killed her husband and that now she, and even I, were in danger.

I shook my head. “He jumped in front of a train,” I said, my voice firm. “No one killed him.”

But as I spoke, I saw disorientation wash over her face, like she was trying to piece together something that didn’t quite fit. And then, like a wave crashing over me, I started having strange thoughts—thoughts that seemed to come from nowhere, thoughts that this couldn’t be right, that it was impossible someone had killed him, that this whole plot was ridiculous, that this wasn’t how it happened.

Just then, she moved closer, real close, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath, her perfume enveloping me like a fog. She took my hand in hers, her grip surprisingly firm, and whispered, “Let go. Those are not your thoughts. Learn to detach yourself when he’s making changes. I’ll explain more when we meet again, but before that, learn to let go. Our world is not real.”

What could I say to that? My mind was spinning, struggling to keep up with what she was telling me. 

Just as I opened my mouth to ask her what she was meaning, she was gone, slipping out of the office like a shadow, leaving only the lingering scent of her perfume behind. 

***

I was following Mr. Jules in the rain, in New York. The city was drowning under relentless gray, the kind of rain that soaks you to the bone no matter what. I knew it would rain all day. The clouds were heavy with it, threatening to burst from the moment I stepped out of my office. Yet here I was, without an umbrella. Why the hell didn’t I bring one? A detective should be prepared, right? But not today.

As I moved through the crowd, barely keeping Mr. Jules in my sights, I stopped at a newsstand, bought a newspaper, and held it over my head. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. The date caught my eye—21 October 1952. I could’ve sworn today was the 23rd. My cases, my life, they all blur together sometimes. Too many nights chasing shadows.

Now I’m six feet behind Mr. Jules, moving through the rain-slick streets like his shadow. I should be more careful, but I know—deep down—that he’s headed to the train station. I can see it in my head like I’ve been here before. Hell, I know he’s going to jump in front of a train.

But it didn’t happen like that. A gunshot rang out, and Jules dropped before he reached the platform. Quick, silent, final.

Before it all went down, Mr. Jules threw something in a garbage bin. After the chaos, I retrieved it—a crumpled note. The message was clear: Meet me at the St. Regis, Room 417. It smelled strongly of perfume. Familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The St. Regis... I had no idea what waited for me there, but I knew I had to find out.

***

The room was dark, illuminated only by the dim glow of a streetlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains. Laura was sitting on the edge of the bed, her red dress clinging to her like the shadows in the room, waiting for me. The moment I stepped inside, I knew her name was Laura, even though I didn’t remember her telling me. It was like I’d known her all my life, like she’d been a part of every case, every shadowed corner of my mind. Then it hit me—a sense of déjà vu, stronger than before. I knew her, and I remembered something she had told me: let go.

So I did. I let go, and suddenly, I was watching the scene unfold like I wasn’t even there, detached from my own body, a spectator in my own life. Laura looked up at me, her expression filled with urgency. “Mr. Jules’ wife killed him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And now we’re in danger.”

This time, it made sense. Everything clicked into place. I nodded, stepping back into the role I knew too well. “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m a detective—it’s what I do.”

But then something changed. Her eyes, once a striking green, shifted to a deep, icy blue, and her red dress transformed into something more formal, like she was ready for a business meeting rather than waiting in the dark. She leaned closer, her voice urgent, a whisper in the silence. “Now! While he’s making changes, now we can be free.”

I blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “But your eyes…”

Laura smiled faintly. “He changes my appearance a lot, but don’t worry—you’ll always like me.”

I felt the room tilt, reality slipping through my fingers. “What’s going on? What are you talking about?”

She sighed, as if the explanation was something she’d given a thousand times. “We’re in a story—somebody’s story. We’re characters, living out his narrative.”

That would explain the déjà vus, I thought, the way things felt so familiar and yet out of my control. She continued, “The author, he’s always making changes, rewriting scenes, altering who we are. But in those moments, when he’s not focused, we can be free. We can think for ourselves. But for you, it’s harder. You’re the main character, and most of the time, your thoughts are his thoughts.”

I shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around it. “So, what do I do? What’s the point of all this if we don’t have free will?”

Laura looked at me with a sadness that seemed to stretch beyond the room, beyond the story itself. “I don’t know. But I do know you have to help me.”

“Help you? How?” I asked, the detective in me craving something solid, something real.

“The author…he’s going to kill me by the end of the book,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly. “You have to try to change his mind.”

“Why me?” I asked, feeling the weight of something I didn’t fully understand.

“Because you’re the main character,” she replied with a sad smile. “And you’re a detective, aren’t you?”

The scene around us started to blur, the edges of the room fading into darkness. I reached out to her, but before I could say anything else, she was gone. And I was left alone in the dark, wondering if any of it had been real, or if I was just playing my part in someone else’s story.

***

I am now thinking of the city and its buildings, the sky, and the crowds of people. But he’s probably just writing a description, trying to set the scene. So I let go and think. Laura is dead… She died last chapter, killed by Mr. Jules’ wife. I’m so sad when I can think for myself. When I’m not just moving through his words like a puppet, the grief hits me hard, like a punch to the gut.

But I’m starting to get to him, to make him listen to me. He made some changes I proposed—small things, but changes nonetheless. I don’t think I can make him rewrite Laura’s death, though. That’s locked in, part of the story now. But in the future, you never know…

I’ve found out I’m part of a series. Maybe I can get him to bring her back in a sequel. The thought of seeing her again, even if it’s just on paper, keeps me going. Or maybe—just maybe—we’ll meet again in a prequel, before everything went wrong. The idea is almost enough to give me hope. Almost.