Still, I feel mesmerized by the figure behind the glass. I have a flash of myself climbing, of my knee going through the pane of one of those upper story windows. The figure is barely visible, just the vague outline of a shoulder and an arm. The curtain bunches and twists where a hand might be, and my eyes fix on that movement. Bunch and twist. Bunch and twist.
“There you are,” Mom says.
I smile. Back at the window, the curtain goes still. Whoever was there is gone.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was too antsy to sit.”
Mom rubs my shoulder on the way to the car. She doesn’t harp on me for waiting and doesn’t ask me much when we settle into the immaculate leather seats.
“Now I don’t want you to worry,” she says as she starts driving. “The police don’t suspect foul play, and I don’t think it was someone local.”
A strange laugh comes out of me. “You think someone from out of town drove in to die in the Fairview Public Library.”
“I mean they weren’t from Fairview.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering how she’s sure and why it would matter.
Classical radio plays softly in the background. The car smells like my mother—high-end perfume and the heavy gloss paper from her real estate flyers.
“How are things there usually?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Libraries are a public space. There’s no controlling what kind of person comes inside.”
“Yeah. There could be criminal kids who kick out windows in their spare time.”
“Not funny, Spencer. Someone died. Normal people don’t wind up dead in libraries.”
My jaw clenches, and I hold the armrest a little tighter. I want to ask her where the hell normal people die, but I don’t. I want to ask her why she stopped raking the leaves and why her forehead doesn’t move and if she really thinks she’s better because she’s from this stupid town. But I don’t ask because I don’t think I actually want the answers.
I should shut up and be glad it’s a stranger. I should, I don’t know, send some kind of silent prayer for a peaceful passing or whatever the hell you’re supposed to do when you run into a dead person. But I don’t know what I should do. This is the theme of my life these days.
• • •
I get to the library at 4:30 the next day, which is early, but it already looks like nothing happened. Mr. Brooks is wandering the lobby, escorting anyone concerned upstairs to chat. Gretchen is smiling, and Noah is working on a music display. I guess I’m playing that nothing-happened game too because I have knitting needles in my pocket—and let me tell you, buying knitting needles in hockey gear raises plenty of eyebrows.
I leave them in the desk compartment, but second-guess myself right away.
If she knows what happened in here, she might not come back. A dead person in the library would be enough to keep someone away. Whatever. Worst-case scenario, someone else finds knitting paraphernalia in a library desk. I could inspire a new wave of yarn enthusiasts.
Two-thirds of the way through my second cart of shelving, I find her. I do a double take, but it’s definitely her. She’s at a table near the gardening section, working on an ancient-looking laptop with a notebook beside her.
From the stack of papers next to her, it seems like she’s been at it for a while. We exchange a weird wave, but I have no idea where to go from there. Waltzing up to explain the gift waiting for her feels ridiculous, and I suspect she’s not in the mood for ridiculous. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles, and her hair is twisted up into a messy ponytail.
It reminds me of the dead girl’s tangled hair. Three days ago, it could have been Mallory on the floor, and I wouldn’t have known or cared. She would have been a stranger, then. And Mom still would have told me it was no big deal, because hey! She’s not from Fairview.
I finish the fiction cart and grab another one. Nonfiction this time, because it’ll keep me closer to her table. I linger so long at the ends of the rows, I’m probably edging into stalker territory. Not that she notices. She’s clicking away and jotting down notes and scrunching up her nose like something on her laptop is weird. Or slow.
After a while, it seems more than slow. She taps several keys, growing frustrated. Then she checks cords and swears under her breath, pink blotches rising on her pale cheeks.
I step out from behind the shelf I was essentially hiding behind and walk closer.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, voice deep and super servicey. “Having trouble?”
She spares me only the briefest glance, still clicking away. “The stupid connection keeps failing. I’m probably ten minutes from finishing this assignment.”
“That sounds frustrating. Are you aware that the library offers public computers? They’re hardwired to our connection, which is often more reliable.”
She frowns but the ghost of a smile lights her eyes. “I’ll have to look into that.”
“I have a particular desk I’d recommend.”
She arches a brow. “Do you have a pen as well?”
“I seem to have given all my pens away.”
She laughs, and it’s hard not to pump my fist. It’s also hard to stay put when she shoves everything in her backpack and heads for the browsing room. Once upon a time, I was not the weird guy who flirts with girls at his community service gig. I guess times have changed.
I finish my cart and restock the staff picks before I find her again. Mallory is at the desk typing away. She has the needles tucked in the front pocket of her backpack, and as soon as she sees me, she gets up.
She heads straight for me, tipping her chin up. “Hey again.”
“Hey.”
“Are you on break soon? I want to talk to you. Alone, if possible.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Well, don’t beat around the bush on my account.”
She takes it all wrong, her face screwing up like I’ve pissed her off. Or maybe even hurt her. I step closer with a smile, trying to make it clear I’m not teasing.
“No breaks,” I say, “but I’m off at seven.”
“Okay,” she says, flushed but determined. “Can I talk to you then?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She doesn’t smile and doesn’t say anything else, but suddenly the space between us is electric. We’re not talking and we’re standing beside a display of books on the Great Depression, but I feel like she’s so close we might as well be touching. I can’t figure it out. I can’t figure her out.
I clear my throat. “I could give you my number.”
She shakes her head. “That’s okay.”
Neither of us moves to leave but my heart speeds up, and my throat tightens. It feels like climbing, when I’m perched on the side of a bad ledge, no foothold in sight and no easy way up. Every muscle tenses and my breath catches. Anything could happen from here.
“Hey, Spencer!”
I turn at the familiar voice behind me. Alex is in the doorway to the browsing room. He’s holding a stack of books on the War of 1812. Isaac’s got some on President Grant, and Jarvey’s standing there, sucker in his mouth and a don’t-give-a-shit expression on his face.
They move in with grins and quick fist-bump, shoulder-slap greetings, Isaac disappearing when his cell phone rings.
“How much longer are you stuck in this hellhole?” Jarvey asks, looking around.
“Show a little class,” Alex says. Then to me: “When are you off?”
“Seven.” I glance over my shoulder, thinking I should say something. Introduce Mallory. She’s already back at the desk. She waves me off, and Alex gives her a brief glance.
“You should skip last period and come to the rink early tomorrow,” Jarvey says. “Your long passes need work, and Shawn said he’d pay for t
he ice time.”
“My last long pass got you a goal, didn’t it?” I turn to Alex. “What do you think? Am I tainting the ice for Gretzky here?”
“Shut up,” Jarvey says, but he’s grinning around his sucker. “Just be there, all right? You good for that?”
“If you want, I can drive,” Alex offers.
“I can drive,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
“You better,” Jarvey says. “Worthington is looking tight. We need to be ready.”
“I said I’ll do it.”
Jarvey flashes a filthy grin at Mallory. “Whatever else you’re doing, do it fast.”
He disappears, joining Isaac in the lobby. I feel myself pulling back as I watch them. These are guys I’ve hung out with most of my life. I’m one of them. So why the hell do they feel like strangers?
Alex nudges my shoulder and I smirk. “Is it just me or are they getting worse?”
Alex nods. “Definitely. They’re only here to get some scoop on the dead body.”
“There’s scoop?”
“Yeah, from one of the librarians. Jarvey’s not a total idiot. He pushed the freedom of information shit, and the guy caved. Told us she was a Jane Doe, and that the police aren’t ruling the death suspicious.”
“Dying in a library feels pretty suspicious.”
“It was a drug overdose,” Alex says, shrugging. “Or that’s what my mom thinks.”
She’d have the best guess, being a trauma specialist at the hospital downtown.
“Not surprising,” Alex says. “We’re a heroin highway or whatever. She’s not from Fairview though.”
I wince. “Man, everybody keeps saying that.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Spencer,” Gretchen says. “May I have your assistance?”
“Course.” I wave at Alex and follow her around the corner and down a short flight of stairs to the lower level. The Youth Services Department is down here, along with a small kitchen and vending area and some benches. A staff member and a girl I don’t recognize are talking to a mother and child. The child is sniffling, and there is worry on the mother’s face.
“What can I do for you?” I ask Gretchen.
She sweeps her hand toward the bulletin board. “Help me get this all down. It scared her half to death.”
“Okay,” I say, starting at the top. I’m about to ask why when I see the words scrawled across the brochures and flyers. Where are you?
“It hasn’t even been two days,” she says, sounding angry. “Already somebody goes for a cheap scare. Like this isn’t a tragedy. That woman was a real person.”
Gretchen cuts herself off abruptly, but she’s moving fast, ripping down everything she can reach. I do it too, noticing it’s all the same. The handwriting. The marker. The words.
Where Are You?
It’s not that scary, but the kid in the vending area is sobbing. I wad up the flyers and head to the trash can near the glass wall.
“That’s not it!”
It’s the little girl, obviously. She can’t be older than seven or eight.
Gretchen joins me and we stand shoulder to shoulder, just out of sight. I guess we both want to hear, but we don’t want to intrude either.
“Did someone tell her about the woman?” I ask softly.
“They sure did.” Her voice is a sarcastic singsong. “Guy with a sucker. Your friend?”
Jarvey. I close my eyes, my stomach sinking. “He’s…” There are a lot of things I want to say, but there’s a little girl crying, and Jarvey’s responsible. “Yeah, he’s a shit.”
The girl’s sobs ramp up again. “You won’t listen! It’s a ghost! I heard a ghost!”
Her mom tries to hush her, a stern tone layered beneath her whisper as she gathers her purse. She’s getting ready to move this whole scene upstairs and outside is my guess. But the girl flings herself out of reach, red hair swinging.
“I heard a ghost crying, Mommy. I heard a ghost in the walls.”
Mallory
Monday, November 13, 7:05 p.m.
I have a laptop on the fritz, a phone that’s essentially a tracking device, and nowhere to sleep tonight. My options are suck and suckier, but asking a cute, rich boy for help still makes my insides squirmy.
I wait inside, watching him from the windows by the front door. Honestly, I’m trying to think of a better option. Because trusting any guy feels stupid given my present situation, but a guy from a neighborhood like this? One who seems unusually nice? I think Mom and I are living proof that if a guy seems too good to be true, he probably is.
Plus, I know nothing about Spencer. I don’t even know what he does in his spare time. Football probably, if his enormous, muscular friends are any indicator. He has zero reason to help someone like me. If I say too much, he might even run and tell a manager, and then…
Could they kick me out for—I don’t know, for being here too much? Would they try to call my mom?
I sigh and press my knuckles into the windowsill. He’s standing near the bushes, looking tall, dark, and put together in a way that advertises his zip code. I turn my back on the door and close my eyes.
Spencer is my best option. Maybe my only option.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I open my eyes and spot curly hair and a wide smile. Gretchen. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
“Oh!” I laugh. “No, it’s…school. I’m in a new online program.”
“Ah, that’s why you’re riveted to the keys so much,” she says. “Is there a project you need help with?”
She’s coming closer. I hold my breath, reminding myself to not panic. I’m not in trouble. I’m a student. Studying. Still my laugh dribbles out on a wave of nervous energy.
“No, I’m good. Thanks,” I say. “I should get some fresh air.”
“Fresh air helps!”
I don’t answer because I’m already walking outside. Spencer watches me descend the stairs. I’m not so dense that I miss the way he looks at me. Or the fact that I’m looking, too. When he grins, dragonflies take flight in my chest. I take a breath to push them down, because I already decided I don’t have time for a boy. The only male I should be thinking of is the one I need to get away from my mother.
“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” he says.
“Why?” I smirk. “Because I didn’t come running?”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting running per se.”
“Rushing, maybe?”
“I rushed.”
Rushed to see me? Heat blooms in my stomach, rising through my neck and face. He steps closer, and I smell something clean and woodsy. It’s him. He smells expensive.
Probably because he is expensive.
“So what do you do at the library?” I ask.
“Most of the time I check books in, shelve them, and sneak pens and knitting needles into desk compartments.”
“I thought you worked the desks.”
“Not usually.” He quirks his head. “Am I being interviewed?”
I grin. “Maybe.”
“So what do you do at the library?” he asks.
“School. Why?”
“I didn’t want to be the only one answering questions.”
“Now I am beating around the bush.”
“I know. It’s comforting. I wasn’t sure you were capable.”
His smile relaxes me. Spencer pushes at my guard without even trying. I’m afraid I’ll tell him more than I should. Which is why I need to be careful.
“I was hoping you’d be able to help me with something. In the library.”
“Like math homework?” He grimaces. “Because despite all the bullshit rumors about guys being good at math, I suck.”
“It’s not homework. I need more time on the internet.”
“Ther
e shouldn’t be any limits with our wireless connection since you have a laptop.”
“That’s the problem. Lana’s—” I stop myself. “My laptop is screwing up. Keeps losing the connection.”
“And the public computers have a two-hour max,” he says.
“Right. Some days that’s fine, but on others I have live lectures and tests. I need three or four hours to be safe.”
His face grows thoughtful, and my stomach squirms. I barely know this guy, and I’m asking him to bend the rules for me. This isn’t who I am. I handle my own crap.
“Forget it,” I say with a weird, breathy laugh. “I shouldn’t ask you to do this. I’m sorry. I’ll sort something out.”
He holds up a hand. “I didn’t say no.”
“You didn’t?”
“I’m working it out. I can put you on the staff connection, which isn’t limited, but I’ve got to figure out the schedule. You’ll need to move around so people don’t realize you’re using the internet for more than two hours.”
“Of course. Are you sure about this?” I shake my head. “You could get in trouble.”
“Let me let you in on a little secret, Mallory. Trouble isn’t exactly new to me.”
I laugh. He doesn’t make me feel like a girl wearing dirty socks and eating nothing but granola bars I found on clearance at the Dollar Tree. I feel close to normal with Spencer.
“So you’ll help me,” I say, needing to be sure.
“I don’t know,” he says, obviously teasing me. “It’s a risk.”
“This is where you roll out a list of demands,” I say. “The staff password for your history paper.”
“I’ll have you know I’m great at history.” He wrinkles his nose. “Usually.”
“Math, then?”
“I’m beyond help there,” he says, “but I might have one tiny request.”
“What?”
“Your phone number.”
His words pull the oxygen out of the air. How stupid can I be? I’m not a normal girl flirting in the library parking lot. I’m a runaway with a cell phone I can’t power on without my stepfather tracking me. Currently, I don’t even have a home address.
What You Hide Page 6
