Mad Mabel

The Day Mabel Found Herself on the Shelf

Every Saturday morning, just after the kookaburras had finished arguing with the sunrise, Mabel began the ritual she loved most. The kettle went on.

Routine mattered. It kept things steady. Predictable. Contained.

That particular Saturday felt no different. The breeze moved softly through the Cyprus Pines, the bay shimmered like it always did, and the island carried on in its slow, familiar rhythm.

Mabel made her tea, picked up her canvas bag, and set out for the library. Nothing unusual. Not yet.

The Coochie library was quiet when she arrived. A couple of regulars. Pam behind the desk, sorting returns with her usual calm efficiency.

“Morning, Mabel.” “Morning.”

Mabel wandered the shelves, fingers grazing the spines of books she already knew she loved. Fiona McIntosh. Nora Roberts. J.D. Robb. Reliable companions. Predictable worlds.

Then something caught her eye. A flash of green. A book that didn’t belong. She tilted her head slightly.

Mad Mabel
By Sally Hepworth

Mabel let out a soft huff of amusement.

“Well, that’s new,” she murmured. Curiosity did what curiosity always does. She picked it up.

It wasn’t the title that unsettled her. 

It was the tagline.

They called it murder. She called it justice.

Something in her chest shifted. Small, but sharp enough to notice.

Coincidence, she told herself. It had to be. She opened the book.

At first, it was nothing. A setting. A character. The usual slow build of a story finding its feet.

Then came a detail.

A phrase.

A memory described just a little too precisely.

Mabel frowned. She turned the page.By the end of the chapter, her tea had gone cold. By the third, her hands were no longer steady. By the fourth, she stopped reading.

Closed the book.

Stared at the cover.

“No,” she said quietly.

Not coincidence.

Not even close.

Because this wasn’t just a story about a woman named Mabel.

This was a story about her.

Not the version the island knew. Not the quiet woman with the canvas bag and the polite nod for everyone she passed.

The other one.

The one she had very carefully left behind.

Mabel sat in the armchair by the window, the book heavy in her lap.

Her mind moved quickly now. Places. Moments. Details. Things no one should have known. Things she had never told a soul.

She had been careful. After everything, she had been very, very careful.

A new place. A quieter life.

A name slightly adjusted.

Not a lie, exactly.

Just… rearranged. 

And Coochie had made it easy. People here didn’t pry. They let you be who you said you were. Mabel had taken full advantage of that.

So how? She opened the book again. Forced herself to keep reading.

The story wasn’t exact. Of course it wasn’t. It had been softened. Polished. Turned into something that could sit comfortably on a shelf.

But the bones of it were unmistakable.

The man. The situation. The moment. The choice.

Mabel’s jaw tightened.

She remembered that moment with perfect clarity. The stillness. The understanding.

The quiet, undeniable truth that no one else was going to step in.

They called it murder. She called it justice.

Mabel closed the book again, more firmly this time. Across the room, Pam glanced over. “You alright, love?” Mabel looked up, expression calm, composed. “Just found something interesting.” Pam smiled. “Best place for it.” Mabel returned the smile.

But her thoughts had already shifted. Who knew? That was the question. Because this wasn’t guesswork. This wasn’t someone spinning a clever story out of thin air. This was someone who knew enough to be dangerous.

A name flickered through her mind. Dismissed. Too obvious. Another followed. Less comfortable.

Or maybe it wasn’t a person at all.

Maybe it was something slower. Collected over time. Conversations. Records. Fragments stitched together into a story someone thought was fiction.

Mabel exhaled slowly. Did it matter? The more immediate problem sat in her lap. The book was here. On this island. In this library. Where curiosity travelled faster than the ferry. What happened when someone else read it? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Mabel tapped her fingers lightly against the cover.

She could borrow it. Simple enough. Except books had a habit of coming back. She could lose it. But Pam noticed things. Pam always noticed things. She could recommend it. Get ahead of it. Shape the way people saw it. That idea lingered.

Or she could do nothing. That one lingered longer.

Because part of her, a part she hadn’t heard from in a long time, wasn’t afraid. It was curious. Curious about who had told the story. Curious about how close they’d come to the truth. Curious about whether the version in the book was worse… or kinder… than reality.

Mabel stood slowly, the book still in her hands. She walked to the counter. Pam looked up. “Taking that one home?” Mabel placed it gently on the desk. “Yes,” she said. Then, after the smallest pause, she added,

“I think I need to see how it ends.”

Pam recorded the book and slid it back across with a smile. “Enjoy.”

Mabel nodded, slipping it into her canvas bag. As she stepped back out into the soft island air, the world looked exactly the same as it always had. Peaceful. Unchanged.

But tucked inside her bag was something that didn’t belong. A story that knew too much. A past that wasn’t quite as buried as she had believed.

And for the first time in years, Mabel wasn’t entirely sure which troubled her more.

The idea that someone else knew her story.

Or the quiet, unsettling possibility that she might want to read it anyway.

Part 1 here if you missed it

Part 3 here for your reading pleasure. (or reading curiosity)

Over 100 new titles at the library to read, including 'Mad Mabel'! Check them out at the Library every Saturday from 9 - 11am. 

Editors note: Again, supported by my AI buddy, I've come up with some doozie plot twists, but you gotta read part 3 for the clincher!