Whispers She Was Never Meant To Hear

Bethanna Smith had learned long ago that people underestimated women like her.

Black. Tall. Curved in a way that made heads turn even when she wished they wouldn’t. She wore sensible pumps because they made her feel grounded, steady, in control—never because she needed to impress anyone. Her beauty was not loud, not demanding. It lived in the way she walked with certainty, the way her eyes noticed details others missed, the way silence never unsettled her.

That afternoon in London, the rain had been relentless. Not dramatic, not stormy—just persistent, soaking through coats and patience alike. Bethanna ducked into the Camden Public Library mostly out of convenience. It was warm. Familiar. Safe.

Or so she thought.

She shook the rain from her umbrella, smoothed her coat, and let herself drift deeper into the building. The back aisles were always quieter. Fewer people. Fewer interruptions. She liked that.

The thriller section sat tucked away, narrow aisles flanked by tall shelves that swallowed sound. Bethanna reached for a book, flipping it open more out of habit than interest.

That was when she heard voices.

Not loud. Not careless.

Intentional.

“I told you, this isn’t the place,” a woman said, her voice low but tense.

Bethanna froze.

She shifted subtly, her body angled so she could see down the aisle without being visible herself. The woman continued speaking.

“You’re always saying that,” a man replied. Calm. Confidence. Annoyed.

Bethanna’s chest tightened.

She knew that voice.

Donald Thomas.

Councilman. Public servant. White, impeccably dressed, devastatingly handsome in the way that made people trust him without thinking twice. The kind of man who shook hands firmly and spoke about transparency while hiding rot beneath his words.

“I mean it this time, Donald,” the woman said. “Someone could hear us.”

Mary Matthews.

Bethanna recognised her immediately. Young. White. Brown hair always pulled back simply, like she didn’t want it to be noticed. Pretty in a way that felt deliberate—like she chose to downplay it, to blend in, to disappear into her role as librarian.

“What’s the problem now?” Donald asked.

“The problem is Cecil,” Mary said sharply. “He knows.”

Donald exhaled slowly. “I told you not to panic.”

“He found out about the money.”

Bethanna’s grip tightened on the book.

“What about it?” Donald said.

“What about it?” Mary repeated incredulously. “He wants his cut.”

Donald scoffed. “He doesn’t get one.”

“He says if he doesn’t get it, he talks.”

Donald was quiet for a moment. Then, “He won’t be talking.”

Bethanna’s breath caught.

Mary’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re talking about killing him.”

“I’m talking about protecting ourselves.”

“You’re talking about protecting you,” Mary snapped.

“And you,” Donald replied coolly. “You knew what this was when you agreed.”

“I agreed to laundering funds,” Mary said. “I didn’t agree to murder.”

“You agreed to partner with a crime lord,” Donald said flatly. “Murder is part of that world.”

Bethanna felt cold.

She shifted slightly.

The shelf creaked.

Mary stopped mid-sentence. “Did you hear that?”

Donald glanced around. “Relax. It’s a library.”

“That’s exactly why I’m nervous,” Mary said. “People come in and out. They listen.”

“No one listens,” Donald said. “They read.”

Bethanna pressed herself against the shelf, barely breathing.

Donald continued, “Cecil got greedy. That’s on him.”

“And if someone overheard us?” Mary asked.

“They wouldn’t be believed.”

Bethanna’s heart pounded.

“This ends tomorrow,” Donald said. “After that, we clean up and move on.”

Mary swallowed. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Donald said. “You just have to stay quiet.”

Their footsteps moved away.

Bethanna stood frozen long after they were gone.

Her mind raced.

Money.

Crime lord.

Cecil.

Tomorrow.

She checked out a book she had no intention of reading and left the building, rain soaking her again as if the city itself was trying to wash away what she had heard.

The next morning, London woke up to sirens.

Bethanna stood in her kitchen, dressed for work, her pumps clicking softly against the floor as she moved. The radio murmured in the background.

“…Local businessman Cecil Mack was found dead in his home early this morning. Authorities believe foul play is involved…”

The mug slipped from her hand and shattered.

Her knees buckled, and she sat heavily at the table.

“No,” she whispered.

Her phone buzzed.

Cecil Mack. Dead.

She hadn’t imagined it.

Detective Inspector Rowe watched her closely as she spoke.

“You’re certain it was them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re certain you didn’t misunderstand?”

“No.”

Rowe leaned back. “You’re asking me to believe a librarian and a councilman planned a murder in public.”

“They thought no one was listening.”

Rowe sighed. “People like them don’t make mistakes like that.”

“People like them think they’re untouchable,” Bethanna said.

Rowe studied her. “You know how this sounds.”

“I know how it sounds when no one believes you,” she replied quietly.

Mary Matthews looked smaller behind the desk that afternoon.

Still neat. Still composed. But something in her eyes had shifted.

“Bethanna,” she said politely. “Can I help you?”

“You knew Cecil,” Bethanna said.

Mary hesitated. “Everyone did.”

“You were partners,” Bethanna said softly.

Mary’s jaw tightened. “Be careful.”

“With what?”

“With what you accuse people of.”

Bethanna met her gaze. “With what they confess.”

Donald caught Bethanna outside Town Hall later that day.

“You’re causing trouble,” he said calmly.

“I’m telling the truth.”

Donald smiled. “Truth is flexible.”

“You took money from a crime lord,” Bethanna said. “You laundered it through public funds. Mary helped you. Cecil found out.”

Donald’s eyes darkened. “You’re very perceptive.”

“And very alive,” Bethanna added. “For now.”

Donald leaned closer. “You should stop.”

“Why?”

“Because accidents happen.”

That night, Bethanna’s phone rang.

Unknown number.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” a voice said.

“You should’ve stayed honest,” she replied.

Silence.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” Bethanna said. “Cowards with power.”

The line went dead.

The next day, Bethanna returned to the library, her phone recording.

Mary whispered, “She’s dangerous.”

Donald replied, “She’s a problem.”

“What do we do?”

“What we always do.”

Bethanna stepped out. “You stop.”

Mary gasped. “Bethanna—”

Donald smiled thinly. “You really don’t know when to mind your business.”

“This is my business,” Bethanna said. “You dragged me into it.”

Sirens wailed outside.

Mary collapsed into a chair. “I told you this would destroy us.”

Donald said nothing as the police entered.

Epilogue

Bethanna walked through London differently now.

More aware. More deliberate. She noticed the way footsteps lingered behind her, the way cars idled too long at the curb. Still beautiful. Still underestimated.

And no longer naive.

Donald and Mary had been arrested, their secrets exposed. The city called it justice. Bethanna knew it was only the beginning. Men like the crime lord behind them did not disappear when the middlemen fell.

That night, Bethanna stood by her window, coat still on, heels placed neatly by the door. A black car waited across the street.

Her phone rested on the table, recording.

She knew he was coming.

And she was ready.

Bethanna did not run.

She did not hide.

She did not stay silent.

She waited.