Page 22 of Spies Like Us

I look around, and there still isn’t any sign of anyone on the ground floor, so I head in the direction of the big, sweeping staircase behind the circulation desk at the front of the library. I climb the stairs to the second level and search the rows of shelves for someone to help me. It’s not until I get to the very back of the library where the shelves end that I find someone. There is another bank of computers with a seating area for studying, but also a small area dedicated to the history of Summerville. There are photos and knickknacks, manuscripts and plaques. It’s also where I find the librarian—a wizened old man, with thinning hair wearing a beige cardigan and slacks. He has a duster in one hand, and I can hear him humming as he works. He’s shaking his money maker along with the song in his head, and it’s so freaking adorable, I can’t help but smile.

“Excuse me?” I call out, but he doesn’t hear me. I step a little closer and raise my voice. “Excuse me?”

The poor old thing jumps and whirls around, gasping as he clasps his feather duster against his chest. I feel guilty as fuck. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t keel over and die. “Oh my goodness gracious. I didn’t hear you at all,” he drawls with the slightly raised voice of someone who is going deaf. He has the cutest little round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he’s wearing a plaid button-up shirt with a bow tie with frogs on it. He’s not as old as I first guessed—maybe mid-seventies.

“Well, a youngin’ in my library. I didn’t think I’d ever live to see the day again.” He looks me up and down, narrowing his eyes slightly before smiling. “What can I do for you, honey?”

“I’d like to access the computer system to do some research, but I need a library card. Can you help me with that?”

You would think I offered him a million dollars with the way his eyes light up and he nods. “Oh my goodness, yes! Right this way. We need to go back down to the circulation desk, but let’s take the staff elevator.” He puts his duster down and bustles toward the back of the library, gesturing for me to follow.

Smiling, I trail along behind him. My eyes scan over the information regarding the town in the hopes it might mention something about the underground tunnels. Unfortunately, I don’t see anything out in the open.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone your age in my library. I’m afraid with the advent of the internet, the little ones don’t venture into her hallowed halls anymore,” he laments as we go down in the lift. It’s big enough to squeeze a cart of books and a person inside and not much else.

“I’m doing some specific research on the history of Summerville, and I thought what better place to find it,” I explain, and he nods before exiting the elevator when we get to the ground floor. He doesn’t stop walking until he reaches the circulation desk. He sits down on the chair as I walk around to the front.

“Yes indeed. We have some wonderful history books on Summerville in the library. Now, let’s issue you a card so you can get right to the good stuff.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and peers at the computer in front of him. He mutters under his breath as he waves the mouse around violently until he looks satisfied and releases it, putting his hands on the keyboard.

“Name?” he asks.

“Mackenzie Walsh. Mac.”

“And your address, dear?” he asks after tapping away at the keyboard with one finger.

“Oh, um, I’m not sure, actually. I’ve only been there a few days and, well, no one has ever told me,” I tell him, feeling a little embarrassed. I didn’t bother to learn it because I’m not staying, but it fits with the profile of a foster kid, so I’m not too worried.

“Oh!” He sounds slightly perturbed.

“I just moved in with Martha and James Standish,” I tell him, and his eyes widen, and the confusion clears as he starts typing.

“Oh yes, okay. I’ll just put Serenity House in the address box. Don’t worry, dear, everyone knows where that is.” I think he’s trying to be reassuring, but I’m not sure that it is.

He hits enter, and a machine to the side of the computer hums and squawks and spits out a card. He picks it up and hands it to me, beaming with pride. Fuck, he’s cute.

“There you are, dear. Now would you like me to show you where all the town history is kept?” he asks, getting to his feet again. “What exactly are you looking for?” He leads me back to the elevator. “All the Summerville information is back where I was.”

“Actually, I’m looking for information on the Underground Railroad or if they had prohibition tunnels in Summerville.”

He stops and turns to look at me, his lips pursed. “Oh? Why are you looking for that?”

“History assignment for school. We have to come up with something interesting about the town that maybe people haven’t heard of. I know the South’s history is tangled up with both of those things, so I thought it would be cool to see if Summerville was involved in either of those.”

His expression smooths out, and he nods. “Yes, you’re not wrong, the South’s history is rich and varied. You don’t sound very Southern yourself,” he says as we start moving again, the elevator taking us back to where I first found him.

“No, I’m not, but there aren’t a lot of options for teenagers about to age out of the system. I was sent down from Maryland, as this was the only opening available for me.” We step out, and his eyes go to the faded bruise on my face.

“Bad home?” he asks, and I shudder.

“You have no idea.” Again, those pursed lips come out.

“Hmm. Well, you just be careful. What looks sunny and rosy on the outside often hides a rotten core, but you look like a smart girl. Be careful whom you trust and put your faith in.”

This guy seems like he’s on the up-and-up, and I go with my gut. “Yes. After my experiences at church this morning, I plan on being super careful.”

He looks around like he’s worried someone is listening. “Keep your head down, work hard, and get out. Despite its appearance, this town is not safe for people in your circumstances.” The old man repeats the same warning that Carla had given me the other night. I guess it’s not as much of a secret as the ring hopes it is.

“What do you mean? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I ask as my heart rate increases.

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