Page 65 of Eden's Joker

It’s time to test what kind of leader I really am. I’ve waited long enough.

35

Eden

If he means to torture me, he picked exactly the opposite of that. First making me come like nothing I ever imagined was possible, twice, and then locking me in a house with a well-stocked old library and forbidding me to leave? Never mind leaving the house. I’ve been sleeping on a chaise lounge in said library. All I did was open the window to get the worst of the dust out, but other than eating the food that magically appears in the kitchen from time to time, I barely left the room.

Whoever built this house stocked it up with books, probably intending to read them on quiet evenings, since this was at a time well before TV. But most of the books have never been opened, as far as I can tell. Apart from the box of new books, the ones Irecommended Tyler read while we were still just chatting online. I’d begun to suspect he probably didn’t read them at all, that he just pretended to, but I was wrong. He read them all. Even underlined some stuff. Things I would’ve underlined too. But I stopped thinking along those lines. He made no secret of how much he hates my family. And why I’m really here. Even if he doesn’t end up killing me, nothing good can come of this situation.

The weirdest part is, I can’t blame him. To witness his parents murdered… that’s something even adults never get over. I probably couldn’t.

Can love be stronger than that?

I doubt it. And I doubt he loves me anywhere near the level where it would even be a possibility. I can be pretty if I really dress up, but most of the time I can’t even be bothered to put makeup on. And the rest of the time I’m just a boring bookworm. A guy like him, gorgeous and adventurous, wise to the world in all the ways I’ve only read about, will never find me interesting enough to keep.

In my heart I hope I’m wrong, but realistically there is not much hope that he won’t do all those things he threatened to do and more once he returns. In one way or another.

Which is why I’ve spent every waking moment since he left checking out the books in the library. Because I love books, and these might be the last books I ever get to hold. And this is all part of my plan tomake the best of this situation. Go out smiling and all that.

Tyler probably doesn’t even know it, but he’s got a literal treasure trove in old books here. Most of them are in mint condition, some even first editions. Like the leather-bound copy of Little Women. Or the illustrated version of A Christmas Carol.

But my absolute favorite is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It’s even nicer than the one we found in that bookstore what seems like a thousand years ago now. Barely touched, although I did find a smudged print made by a very small finger on the page where Alice is talking to the caterpillar. Probably made by one of the children buried in that graveyard under the oak tree. It made me sad knowing that. But glad the child was clearly loved and was read to.

I found a ton of other famous author books—a few Jane Austen novels, more Dickens, even Edgar Allan Poe. There are also a lot of non-fiction books that I’m sure must be worth something in their own right. Not that I’m big on actually selling books, despite owning a bookstore. If it were up to me, I’d keep all of these for myself.

Evening has fallen outside, and no one’s brought any food yet. I’m not actually all that hungry. I just want something to do. Evenings are always the worst. Something about the color draining from the world makes it impossible not to think about my family andall my friends back home. They must be losing their minds worrying about me and trying to find me.

My dad and his brothers might even be losing more than that—their lives. Every time I think about that, my heart clenches into a tight painful ball and even focusing on the treasures in the library doesn’t always work to get me out of the funk.

There’s nothing I can do. I’ve already written letters to all my family members and closest friends and hidden them in books they know I love. Just in case they storm this place after I’m gone. I cried lots when I did that, so the ink is all smudged on some, but they’re still legible. Writing the letter to my dad was the first time I cried since this whole thing started. He’ll blame himself for this and I hope he finds the letter when I told him it’s not his fault. That I was trying to have some fun and failed and that it has nothing to do with him failing to protect me. Which he did not. He was the best father a girl could wish for.

But if I started thinking about that, I’d just spend the whole night crying again.

It’s dark outside, there’s still no food in the kitchen, and I don’t hear the men who are watching the house and making sure I don’t leave. They’re usually smoking and talking out there at this time of the night.

Adding all that up probably means trouble.

Maybe enough trouble for me to sneak away from here and find my way home.

For the first few days, an older guy with ascar running up his left arm and very dark eyes would check on me each morning and evening. The patch on his cut read Sarge and I doubt that’s just his name. He’s probably the MCs Sergeant At Arms and the one in charge of making sure I don’t run. He never said a word. Just gave me a look full of hard hatred that made my blood run cold and sent shivers down my spine and left again. But he’s stopped doing that the last couple of days, probably figuring I wasn’t going anywhere.

I walk to the window and open it, listening hard for voices. I hear none.

I check all the other windows on the ground floor. Same result.

Even the town below is quieter than usual. There’s music playing, but it’s not very loud and I don’t see anyone walking around outside.

It’s full dark outside by the time I’m satisfied there’s no one near the house.

This could work.

But with every minute that passes, the task seems daunting.

I had found some maps of the area in the library. But I’m very bad at reading maps and these were from 1876. Most things on them are probably completely different now. But as far as I could tell, there’s a road beyond the third hill rising at the back of this house. It doesn’t lead into this town, but runs past it, snaking around yet more hills. But that road probably leads to another road, and another, all the way back home.

All I need is to find a phone and call one of the numbers my dad made me memorize back when I was hardly old enough to use a phone. Then he would come get me. No matter how far away I was.

I keep telling myself that as the night grows even darker. Down in town, lights in some of the houses and at the Saloon are on, but none of the torches and fires they usually light at night are burning. There’s also still no laughing, yelling, or fighting, all of which usually starts down there after dark.

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