“Isaac.”
“Don’t forget old-school game night. We’re starting early. Get there at two. Bring extra controllers.”
“I’m probably grounded.”
“Sneak out.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, though I probably won’t. Annual tradition or not, game night isn’t enough to tempt me tonight. I’ve already got plans for sneaking out.
Mallory
Wednesday, November 22, 7:31 a.m.
I wake to the taste of vomit in my mouth and the worst headache I can ever remember. I take a deep breath that smells of cardboard and Clorox wipes and maybe blood. It’s painfully dark, and I have zero sense of time.
Where am I and how long have I been here?
I blink slowly, trying to put together pieces of my scattered memory. I remember the library. Hiding in the bathroom. Hitting my head. A vacuum cleaner. Vomiting on the floor. I don’t know how these things fit together. It’s like trying to catch fog in my hands. Everything I try to grab disappears.
Eventually, my head clears, and my vision adjusts. There is a crack of light coming from the door. From that meager light, I see a metal shelf beside me. White linoleum underneath me. The floor and my arms are stained with black smears.
The night before returns in rightful order. I wince, as I remember slamming my head into the shelf, dripping blood on my way up the stairs. I found this room, and then someone touched my arm.
The last memory jolts me fully awake. I try to sit up. It’s too fast, and the world droops like a sagging balloon. I lean heavily against the shelves to wait it out.
I don’t know what time it is. Or how bad the gash on the back of my head is. And who the hell was touching my arm. I look for a clock on the storage room walls.
I find a manifesto instead. Line after line of beautiful black writing stretches across the back wall. Where are you? Over and over. Spencer told me about this. This is the supply room where they think someone hid.
Panic flutters in my throat, but I swallow it back. I am in no shape to jump up and run. I read word after word, my head throbbing in endless, nauseating waves. How bad is my head, anyway?
I reach gingerly for the source of the pain. My hair is stiff and sticky, and that’s enough to tell me it’s not good.
I search the floor, finding wads of cleaning wipes and paper towels. They’re all covered in blood and other things I don’t want to think about. The thing is, I didn’t know there were cleaning supplies in here last night. I don’t remember cleaning up after myself.
Because you didn’t do it.
Cold washes over me again, but other than the mess on the floor and the creepy writing, it’s a pretty standard supply room. Old book carts and some rolling shelves clutter the back wall. The rest of the room is office stuff. Paper and pens and binders aplenty, but no boogeymen crouching in the shelves.
My gaze lingers on the black finger-shaped smears on my arm. So where is the boogeyman who left these marks?
I stand up slowly, more memories rushing back. I definitely wasn’t alone in here. I remember someone who helped me get my backpack off. It’s in the corner by the door. That same person touched my forehead. Patted my arm. Did they speak?
No.
So this person cleaned up my vomit and tended to my head wound without ever speaking? Or even turning on the light?
It doesn’t make sense, but it’s definitely an effort to help not harm. I was in a god-awful state last night, and this person came out of hiding for me. I want to know why. And I also want to know how on earth the police haven’t caught them. They’ve searched every single inch of this library! People cannot disappear to avoid being seen.
A prickle runs up the back of my neck as I remember Spencer’s haunted theory. The scratching and tapping in the walls. I don’t think I believe in ghosts. But after all this? Maybe I’m not so sure.
I struggle to take a few steps and then pause at the door, my eyes on that black writing again. Those words—where are you?—catch me like a lump in the throat.
Does Mom wonder this about me? Does she lie awake pacing her floors asking this same question? Given the wall in front of me, the thought is too creepy to linger on. This room itself is too creepy. I’ve had enough.
I turn the doorknob slowly and wait a beat, listening. Silence greets my ears, so I crack the door. The upstairs is quiet, the doors all shut tight. Maybe it’s too early for the library to be open.
I spot a clock inside the boardroom. It’s 7:57 a.m. The library isn’t open until 9:00. I’m alone in here. Except I don’t think I’m alone at all.
I slip from the room, feeling exposed in the shocking brightness of the hall. My head is still a muddled, pounding mess, but when I see the smears of my fingerprints on the wall, I return to the closet, taking a can of cleaning wipes. I work my way down my night in reverse, wiping blood and black from the walls. Inch by inch, I erase my presence.
When I’m done, I push everything—my soiled wipes and the paper towels and cleaning wipes in the closet—into a plastic bag. There are dozens of them, grocery bag leftovers, so I bag the trash again and again, until the blood doesn’t show.
It’s 8:15 when I’m finished, and I’m so winded you’d think I ran a mile. Holding my eyes open hurts, and I know I have to rest. But I can’t spend one more minute in that cramped closet, and the thought of being downstairs with loud voices and banging… I can’t.
Not yet.
I slip into the conference room instead, checking the schedule on the wall. There are no meetings listed, and the early closing—1:00—gives me a deadline. I can rest and try my mom again. With any luck, the stuff about Billie will freak her out enough to leave. Then she can come get me, and we can go see if I need to get stitches and—
Maybe all of this can be a bad memory.
A small voice in my head tells me this can’t be a memory. Whatever is happening here isn’t over.
Spencer
Wednesday, November 22, 11:01 a.m.
We hit traffic in Michigan, so it takes longer to get home. Mom pulls into our driveway, parking behind a Volvo with Minnesota plates. My aunt’s here, and Mom’s already muttering about how many things they need to do.
“So what are your plans?”
“I figured you’d ground me until the end of time.”
She turns to me then, looking more tired and less angry. “No, I don’t think we’re going to ground you. But when this holiday is over, we’re going to talk. Sound fair?”
“More than fair.”
She touches my forehead, and her brow wrinkles. I think of that story my dad told me and try to remember this cool, collected woman panicking over a crying baby. It’s hard to imagine.
“I would like to know your plans tonight,” she says.
I’m not the kind of guy that lies to his parents often, and doing it now feels especially low. But she won’t like it if I admit I’m going to look for Mallory, and I won’t be able to breathe if I don’t find her. I don’t know what’s the greater wrong, lying to my mother or ignoring a girl who might have no other place to turn.
“Isaac has that old-school game thing,” I blurt. “Tradition and all.”
“You going to stay all night?”
“Probably. They’ll twist my arm.”
She nods, and I can tell she’s holding back what she really wants to ask. Which is just as well, because she won’t get a truthful answer.
“Spencer, you’ll tell me if your plans change, right?”
“Of course.”
Mom’s worry caves to the chaos in the kitchen. By the time I’ve hugged my cousins and said hello to my aunt and uncle, Mom’s wrapped up in an intense conversation about where they can get replacement cranberries because these are awful, and oh, let’s call Dan since he’ll have to drive home from the airport anyway.
I sho
wer in record time, flinging on clothes. When I wrench my bedroom door back open, Allison is waiting for me in the hall.
Neither of us speaks. We stare at each other for a long minute. Laughter rings up from the kitchen. Aunt Jan is in there, working on the pies, and Oh, would you look at that crust? It will be like this until tomorrow, when the talk of food will give way to chatter on stock prices and business opportunities and whatever house project or overseas vacation they’re planning next.
Before now, I always played along. But, before now, I could be inside this house and ignore the fact that my future is destined to look like this.
“I’m not going to apply to any private colleges,” I say. I let the words hang there for a minute, allowing myself to feel the weight of it lift off my shoulders. “I’m not interested. The clubs and the fraternities and the drive to impress—it’s not my thing, Allison. It’s pointless to me.”
“You think those things are pointless?” she asks. “I’m at Amherst, so I guess the last two years have been pointless for me.”
“I’m late. I have to go. I’m going to talk to Mom and Dad about it after the holiday.”
“Spencer.” Her hand is on my arm, warm and light. And in her eyes, I see that big sister who carried me home when I busted my knees. The same sister who checked my closet for monsters and gave me her balloon when I popped mine at a fair. “Please talk to me. I know you don’t want a life like Mom and Dad’s, but you refusing to do anything is not a solution.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s like you’re paralyzed. You don’t want what Mom and Dad want? Fine. But you need to figure out what you do want. Maybe you’re wrong about school.”
“I’m not. I don’t want Mom and Dad to spend seventy thousand dollars a year so I can live in an even smaller version of this town for four years. I need to see what the world looks like without the Fairview lens. I need some time to figure it out.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods. “I don’t agree, but I get it. I do.”
“Yeah, for now you do.” I sigh. “When I tell Mom and she starts frothing at the mouth, you’ll knuckle under and try to convert me again.”
“I’m your sister, Spencer. If you want me to give you time, then do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Give me some credit.”
• • •
Ava has no idea where Mallory is, so I check the only place I can think of. It’s a short walk to the library, but that’s the easy part. Staying after closing and getting back out without getting caught will be trickier.
Even as I pull open the doors, I know this might be a bust. According to Ava, Mallory left the library, and she hasn’t been in touch since. For all I know she is staying with a friend. Or maybe she even went home. Still, I’ve got to try.
It’s mostly part-timers at the desk, staff members I barely know who probably agreed to take the pre-holiday shift. I’m surprised when I see Mr. Brooks at the information desk. Before I can dodge him, he calls out my name and waves me over.
“Hey, Mr. Brooks.”
“It’s Ben,” he says. “Just Ben. Did you not get my message about the shift today? I hate to think you came in for nothing.”
“No, I did. I wanted to get away from the house for a bit.” I smile, forcing the nerves out of my voice. “You’re on desk all day?”
“All day? We close at one. Tell me your holiday plans.”
I wonder how he’d respond if I told him the truth. That the entirety of my holiday plan is to find Mallory.
I force a grin instead. “My plans involve elastic pants and four servings of sweet potatoes.” Then, choking on my fear, I ask, “Any luck finding our library vandal?”
“We talked to the police again. We’re ordering interior cameras. Plus the dogs from Columbus will be in on Friday.”
“Dogs?”
“I don’t like it, but I suppose we need answers.”
I nod, feeling like my head is a pendulum on a string. Then I plaster my smile in place and head to the DVDs with a claim of needing something to watch.
It’s all a song and dance, and I’m grateful when a family crowds around his desk, so he doesn’t pay attention. While he’s distracted, I double back for the lobby and wish everyone a good holiday, like I’m ready to leave. In truth, I’m not leaving this library until I’m 100 percent sure Mallory isn’t here. What else can I do?
After the Mr. Brooks run-in, I’m careful to stay in the stacks. I browse poetry and history, checking the study tables now and again. Ava texts me at 12:30.
Ava: Okay, I can’t do it. She left you something. In a desk. She didn’t want me to tell you.
My head goes fizzy and light with hope as I text her a thank-you. The desk in the browsing room isn’t manned—skeleton crew is on duty—so it’s easy to slip in and check the compartment. A single folded sheet of paper sits inside the cubby. I don’t unfold it until I’m back across the room, tucked into a corner of stacks near the sitting area no one ever uses. Mallory’s note isn’t long, but it’s enough.
Wish One: Two weeks in Prague.
Wish Two: Another slice of that lasagna we had.
Wish Three: I’d spend this one on you. For you to find a future you can love.
I fold the note back in half and close my eyes. The heaviness of my next breath sinks like a weight through my chest. I don’t think she’s coming back. This letter feels like a goodbye.
There probably isn’t much point to staying any longer. I know I’m well past a shot in the dark and into desperate territory here.
I’m going to have to accept that she’s gone. Is she? Because she could be hiding out until close. I wasn’t watching the bathrooms every second.
If I don’t wait—if I’m not absolutely sure she’s not here—I think I’ll wonder for the rest of my life.
I’ve still got thirty minutes until close, so I slip up the stairs to the break room.
There are four tubs of homemade cookies in the break room. I take a few and move on. I head back to the hallway. Mr. Brooks’ door is closed, like most of the other doors, but the conference room is open. No one’s having a meeting a half an hour before holiday close, so it’s as good a place as any to wait.
I’m biting into my second cookie when I settle into a leather chair at the end of the table in the conference room. Something rustles in the room. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I freeze, cookie halfway to my lips.
Everything is still and quiet. I can hear the whisper-soft tick-tick-tick of the wall clock. The rhythm of my breathing. But I’m not stupid. Noises in this library are rarely nothing, and I definitely heard something.
I stand up and search under the table, beside the large credenza. There’s a desk, too, on the other side of the table, but—
I stop midstep. There’s something curled up under the desk, in the alcove where the chair rests. I spot a tangle of hair and a single pale arm. A flash of the dead woman comes back, but this time it’s real. This is another body.
And then the body moves.
My throat closes around a scream, but then the head turns, and that pale arm extends, pushing the chair until I see frightened eyes.
Mallory.
Mallory
Wednesday, November 22, 12:45 p.m.
The first closing announcement begins the second Spencer sees me. The intercom is too soft and distant to understand the words up here, but I know these messages by heart. Spencer moves toward me, but I shake my head and hold my finger to my lips.
I’m still rattled by the terror that struck me when I heard footsteps in the hallway, coming fast. There was no time to leave, and I knew the desk was terrible cover. When I heard him rise, I was sure it was over. A part of me was relieved.
But it isn’t over. I’m still h
ere—with Spencer. He is an answered prayer, his eyes dark with concern. The second I nod my permission, he hauls the chair out of the way and reaches to help me.
“Mallory—”
I shake my head fiercely. I know no one is close enough to hear us. Still, using normal voices feels like a dare, and I can’t afford it. Everything about my day proves my luck has run out.
His worry seems to grow as he examines me. I can only imagine what he sees. Spencer touches my shoulders, trying to turn me so he can check my head. I avoid that, because I know what he’ll think. I’m almost positive I should be in a hospital getting stitches and treatment for a concussion. But someone here helped me last night. I can’t leave them.
“What happened to you?” he asks softly.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, then I hold my finger to my lips again and point at the clock.
I don’t want to talk again until we’re alone. Well, mostly alone, anyway. I doubt my secret helper is going anywhere. Spencer watches me, body tense and his hand gripped tightly around mine. But to his credit, he doesn’t force the issue.
His patience is definitely tested too. It’s 1:30 before distant voices trickle up from the parking lot outside the window. Spencer checks, but he’s careful to stay out of sight. Through the window I see thick clouds covering the sky, leaving the room flat and gray. It’s going to rain.
“Okay, they’re gone. It’s just us,” he says.
I take a breath. “No…it’s definitely not.”
I spill the details of the story as quickly as possible, pausing so I can make sure he’s listening before I start in about the person who helped me. And the more I think about it, this isn’t a person. It’s a girl. The fingers on my arm and the person we heard crying—definitely female. Even the two girls in that book sculpture indicate this is not a man.
I tell Spencer about hitting my head and crawling up the stairs. I tell him about the closet, where I was patted and cleaned and helped. Saying it again convinces me that the writing and the crying and the pacing, even the lipstick message I found on the mirror—it’s all the same girl.
What You Hide Page 22
