Page 55 of Mine

When finally he came back into the library, I was sitting on the couch with the book in my lap–Man’s Search for Meaning. I was trying to read it. Rather, my eyes moved back and forth over the same line again and again.

He looked haggard when he came back in. He slumped down in the corner near the end table, his eyes deadened. His hand was wrapped in cotton gauze, and the finger that he had cut blossomed red through the cotton.

He wasn’t mad. That was the important thing. He didn’t look like he was going to kill me. He just looked empty.

It was stupid to feel bad for him. I knew that. Gary had said that he was planning to kill me. He was a killer, a torturer. I knew that. I knew that, but it didn’t matter right then, because of the emptiness that was in his face. The emptiness that I created.

I struggled to find something to say to him.I’m sorrywouldn’t cut it.

“That was your sculpture?” I asked finally.

“It was… yes. Yes.” He snapped to attention, his eyes refocusing on me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “Can I do anything to help?”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze turning to the bookshelves. He frowned.

“How did you know which book opened the secret door? I never let you see.”

“I didn’t.”

“You tried them all to see which one would open it?”

“I just wanted something to read,” I said. My hands cradled the book.

“Out of all the thousands of books on these shelves, you picked the one book that opened the doorway?” I shrugged helplessly.

His burst of laughter startled me. He leaned his head back against the bookshelves, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“She just wanted something to read. That’s… oh, Sara. I knew there was something about you.”

Something about me?I didn’t know what he was talking about, but when he looked over at me my skin grew hot. There was that predatorial look in his eyes again. That look that made me think he wanted to claim me. I touched my fingers to the page I was on.

“Why did you pick this book?” I asked.

“No reason.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You’re telling me you picked a random book to cover the secret switch to your murder room?”

“No. I—” He stopped mid-sentence and peered curiously at me. “Have you read it?”

“A long time ago,” I said, thinking of my mother in the shelter. She’d turned the well-worn pages slowly. When I’d gotten the chance to read it, I’d flown through. Maybe I’d read it too quickly. I was too young to understand most of it.

Rien was staring ahead of him, his eyes becoming unfocused.

“There has to be a reason,” I prodded. I wanted him back with me. Back in the present.

“You’re right. Of course. There’s a reason. There’s a part… wait…”

He stood up slowly, being careful not to hurt his already-damaged hand. The few steps between us disappeared and his body sank into the cushions. Again, his shoulder brushed mine.

I shivered. He had been on the couch with me once before, and now my body reacted to his closeness as hotly as if he had put his hands on me. My pulse quickened and I swallowed back the sudden clench of desire that had wrapped itself around my throat.

Reaching over, he turned the pages of the book in my lap. His fingers were long, his hands strong. I thought of how he had touched me and closed my eyes. The smell of his cologne and the faint musk of his own body made me quicken with want. Desperate, I must be desperate to want this man. To want someone who plotted to murder me.

That’s what Gary said. Now, sitting next to Rien, I couldn’t believe that he’d been telling the truth. Not after I had seen Rien on the ground, shedding tears for a piece of art that I didn’t understand. My whole body ached to comfort him. Yes, him, the murderer. He might be a killer, but he wasn’t heartless.

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