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Mrs. Lay’s voice trembled. “What do you mean, darling? What could a book have to do with what happened at Evermoon?”

Amelia took a deep breath, her eyes distant as she recalled the events from so long ago. “It’s the way the book depicts the story—it’s like reading what happened at Evermoon, but in another form. The clues, the symbols, even the way the characters act. It just feels weird.”

“Okay, darling. So what exactly is this book about?” Mrs. Lay asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

Amelia hesitated for a moment, her fingers still trembling slightly around her teacup. “The book…” She paused, her gaze shifting between her parents and David, as if measuring their reaction. “Well, I haven’t finished it yet, but it describes a murder — just like the one at Evermoon. The story takes place in Rome, around 1960. A customer is found dead in his room at a famous hotel called The Palazzo. The case was quickly closed when the supposed murderer was caught. But then, two years later, someone flew all the way to London to invite a famous detective, James Taylor, to re-investigate the case…” She trailed off, her mind racing. Amelia's voice lowered, as if she were drawing her parents into the mystery, weaving them into the web of her thoughts. "The strange thing is, the detective, James, uncovers something odd. The original investigation didn’t quite add up. It implies that the real murderer had always been hidden in plain sight. It’s like a piece of a puzzle that someone tried to hide.” Her eyes flickered toward the window. "The more I read, the more it feels like the events are mirroring our own. The clues, the way the people in the book react—it all seems too familiar. I can’t help but think that what happened at Evermoon wasn’t that simple. There’s something more, something that was covered up… and I think the key might be in this book."

Mrs. Lay’s expression softened with concern. “You’ve always been the one to see things others missed, darling, but this sounds like quite a leap. Do you really think this book is connected? It could just be a story that’s made up by the author.”

“Right, Amelia,” David said, his voice laced with curiosity. “Speaking of the author, who exactly wrote this book?”

Amelia hesitated, her fingers lightly gripping the rim of her teacup as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know who wrote it,” she said slowly, her eyes meeting her parents' in the dim light of the living room. “It seems to be a book that’s ready to be published, but it hasn’t been. There’s a note inside that says ‘For Review’ on the first page, like it was never meant to be seen by anyone else until it was finalized. It feels unfinished, in a way.”