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I blink. “What kind of deposit?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just say it like you mean it.”
“…Okay.”
She grabs a book—putting it back upside down. Then pauses again. “And hey. If you ever find yourself somewhere that smells like my grandfather’s cigars… don’t sign anything.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She just gives me a small smile. “Just… promise me you’ll remember.”
“…Okay. Weird, but okay.”
“And hey—text me before you leave.”
“Even if you’re still here?”
She nods, a little too eagerly. “Especially if I’m still here.”
There’s a beat of silence. She grabs another book. “People aren’t always who you think they are, Ani. Just—remember that.”
She flashes a smile, then disappears down the aisle labeled Historical Non-Fiction, humming some off-key lullaby that makes the hair on my neck stand up.
Something is definitely wrong.
It’s almost time to leave when I realize I still haven’t heard from him. The thought lands hard and sharp as I flip the last chair onto the table and wipe down the desk in slow, robotic circles. I don’t want to spiral about it. He’s told me I’m his more times than I can count. I know that doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship or whatever—but I thought I’d at least get a message. Something. Anything.
My fingers itch toward my phone, even though I know I shouldn’t check again. I’ve already looked—twice.
Sloane’s been acting weird all day. Not just distracted—jumpy. She made me reshelve an entire cart in the wrong section, then snapped at me when I corrected it. And now she’s standing at the far end of the room, pretending to tidy up the archives, even though no one’s been in there for days.
I glance at her, and she looks up too quickly.
“Hey,” I call out. “I’m locking up.”
She nods, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Cool. I’ll be out in a sec.”
I don’t buy it, but I don’t have the bandwidth to dig. Not now. Not when my chest is already tight for reasons I can’t name and my brain’s playing ping-pong with worst-case scenarios.
I duck into the staff hallway, more out of habit than anything—just a quick breather before grabbing my bag.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out faster than I’ve done anything all day. My heart skips, praying for his name. Only, it’snot from him. It’s not a message, it’s a photo. And the second I open it, my knees buckle against the side wall.
It’s Steven.
He’s slumped in a chair, head down, face bloodied, one arm is hanging like it’s been pulled from the socket—and his shirt soaked through, and he looks…he looks dead.
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t breathe.
My lungs seize up, and the phone shakes in my hands so violently I almost drop it. The edges of the hallway blur, and everything tilts. My body is frozen, but my thoughts are screaming.
Who sent this? Where is he? Why would someone—The photo burns itself into my vision. I need to—I don’t fucking know. Call someone? Run? Scream until my lungs give out? My brain's short-circuiting, sparking and crashing in loops I can’t get out of. I just know I need to move because standing here like this, shaking and useless while he’s somewhere, tied up and bleeding—yeah, that’s not an option.
I shove the phone into my pocket and whirl back toward the front of the library. Sloane’s at the desk now, but I don’t even look at her as I snatch my coat.
