With the rain picking up, I tug on my hood and retrace my steps down the library stairs. Not sure where else to go, I walk the long blocks back to the women’s shelter. Ruth answers the bell with a smile like she’s been expecting me.
She doesn’t ask me any questions before inviting me in. She takes me to the kitchen and makes me hot cocoa and an egg and cheese English muffin with a little cluster of grapes on the side. I don’t talk until I’ve eaten every bite, even the little not-quite-ripe grape that bursts in my mouth, a sour shock on my tongue.
“I’m glad you came by,” she says.
I make a noise between a cough and a laugh. “You’re glad?”
“I’m hoping it means you’re thinking of talking to my friend at Mulberry Manor.”
Footsteps thunder overhead. The squeal of a child laughing. The bell jangles above the front door, but none of that racket distracts Ruth from waiting for my answer.
“I’m not ready for that,” I say, but I really mean I’m not ready for Charlie to find out about that. If I’m at Mulberry Manor, I won’t be there to protect my mom if he loses his mind when that call comes in.
“I thought about going back home,” I admit.
“And?”
“And he’s still there.”
Ruth takes my plate to the sink, and I sit back. I was so cold and miserable I followed her in without paying much attention to the kitchen at all. Now I notice the table I’m at is one of three. There are baskets with coloring sheets and assorted crayons. Little-kid drawings plaster the front and sides of the enormous fridge.
“I know it might be difficult to put into words, but can you tell me about the incident that prompted you to leave without your mother? Was there a fight?”
“There was an escape attempt.” I mean it to be funny, but it only sounds sad. “Mom hesitated, and Charlie came home.”
“Did he become threatening? Violent?”
“He’s not like that,” I say. “I tried to explain it before. He has to be in charge. Not of normal stuff, of everything. He manipulates things, convinces my mom she’s weak and stupid. And he tells her I’m every bad thing you can imagine.”
“Did the words become too much that day?”
I shake my head. “No. We had both decided to go, but Mom got scared. I stuck to my guns and left. I sort of thought she’d come, too, but she was getting sick when it all happened.”
Off her shocked expression, I shrug. “She’s still got morning sickness. Which is really all-the-time sickness. Anyway, while she was out of the room, he told me to go but said I’d come crawling back. He said he wouldn’t be so nice when I did.”
Her eyebrows lift. “He believes his behavior is nice?”
“He’s a real hero in his own mind. Providing such a great life for us.”
There’s concern on her face I haven’t seen before. “Mallory, how long has your mother been with Charlie?”
“They’ve been married about three years.”
“Did you know him before that?”
“No. When I met him, he was nice. Quiet. It started with little stuff. He was picky about curfew. One minute over was as bad as not coming home at all. He got jealous with my mom over nonsense. Baggers at the grocery store. Her doctor. When she got pregnant, it got worse.”
“But you don’t know anything of his past. Former relationships?”
I think back to my string of thoughts in Suds and Fluff. “I don’t. I wondered about that the other day. But he works for the school, so it can’t be bad. They do background checks.”
She spreads her hands. “It’s beyond my area, but I imagine a public school would run a fairly thorough background search.”
She doesn’t say anything else, but her mouth tenses. She probably doesn’t want to tell me that a background check can miss things.
“Do you think something could slip through?” I ask.
“I think it’s understandable that you’re concerned,” she says. “It could be there is something there, or it could just be a difficult relationship.”
“Some days I feel like I’m crazy for being so afraid of him. It’s a feeling, not cold hard facts and evidence.”
She reaches across the table, touching my arm with a severe expression. “I’ve seen some terrible things walk through this door, Mallory. For a while, I thought I could tell, but I’ve learned I don’t know anything. I never know. Sometimes the ones I’d guess to be killers can head to counseling or rehab and turn out all right. Sometimes the ones I want to give the benefit of the doubt trade in their fists for knives or guns. The only thing I know for sure is that it is never stupid to trust your gut. That’s your instinct.”
“My instinct told me to run away from my mother,” I say.
“No. Your instinct told you that you were not safe.”
• • •
I arrive at the library a little before noon and scan the whole place before I get started. First, I look for the police, and then for Spencer. There’s no sign of either. Logic tells me Spencer will probably have hockey practice or a game. Logic also tells me it’s a relief that he isn’t here to distract me, but my heart disagrees.
I set up at my regular desk in the browsing room with a guest pass. On a hunch, I check the hidden compartment and find a small white envelope with two words written across the front: Knitting Tips.
Inside is a note card with eight consonants, three numbers, and a punctuation symbol. I grin, my face going warm all over. Spencer got me the staff password. Beneath it, in much smaller writing, there’s another number, an area code and seven digits. I don’t need a name to know it’s his phone number.
My heart clamors again.
Call him.
I think about it. I could do it. Run ten blocks east, power up my phone and call the guy. And then Charlie will have one more number in his arsenal of information. Who knows what he’ll do with it. Would Charlie call him? Search for details attached to Spencer’s number?
Calling Spencer is way too dangerous.
My priorities are crystal clear. First, school. Second, researching my creepy stepfather. Third, trying to figure out a better sleeping arrangement.
I have no idea where Spencer is on the priority list, but he’s certainly not hitting a top slot. I put my headphones on for focus and set a timer so I remember to move to a computer downstairs in two hours. My school account is quiet, but I leave responses for every single message and leave comments on the lecture videos. One test later, my timer rings. Two hours down. Nine to go.
I browse the stacks until 3:00, and then I can’t ignore my growling stomach any longer. Ruth sent me with a plastic bag filled with protein bars and little boxes of raisins, so I nibble on one of those and head outside of the library for a long stroll. I wander the aisles of Walmart. Stop briefly in a Starbucks, like I’m waiting for a friend. Then I walk the blocks aimlessly, counting the minutes until I can safely go back inside.
The day staff leaves at 5:00, and the part-timers who work nights come in around the same time. It’s a hassle, but a hassle is fine if it means not alerting the staff to the fact that I’m a girl with nowhere else to go. The less they can compare notes, the better.
I return, sure that I’ll find Spencer. But I’m wrong. So I spend my last two hours in Youth Services with a study guide and head to the downstairs bathroom after my 8:30 timer.
I use the same trick down here, staying in the back stall, door cracked and my feet perched on the toilet. It feels like I’m there forever until the lights go out, and then there’s nothing. No voices. No staff checking the bathrooms.
Surely they have to check the bathrooms, right? But they don’t. I wait long minutes, with the silence pressing hard on my ears.
Maybe they’re still down here. They could have an after-hours meeting or whatever. I can’t sit in here forever. I have to check.
The sou
nd of my own blood rushing behind my ears is threatening to drive me over the edge, so I lower my feet to the floor and stand. I have to see for myself. Every movement screams, the scrape of my shoes against the tile, the soft clunk of the stall lock. Finally, I reach the outside bathroom door.
I push it open a crack. The hall is mostly dark, with a faint glow in the distance. I wait one breath.
And another.
The water fountain hums across from me, and the soft whir of the heater drifts in from unseen vents. Otherwise, the library is utterly silent, but it isn’t dark. Not entirely. That glow wasn’t a trick of my eyes from the bathroom. There’s a light on.
I slip out of the bathroom and peek around the corner, spotting the glass-walled vending area, still brightly lit. And still occupied. I catch a glimpse of someone bent over the table before I pull into the shadows, pressing my back to the wall.
My heart pounds so hard I feel it in the tips of my fingers. Long minutes pass, but there’s nothing. No noise. No talking. Is it a librarian hanging out after hours?
My imagination?
I look slowly around the corner again and spot the back of a dark head on top of shoulders. I’m ready to run when I recognize him.
Spencer. My shoulders slump with a sigh, but then tense almost as fast.
Why is he still here?
I walk in to find him at the table with an open can of Coke and a sleek phone in his hand. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I’m 100 percent sure he heard me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Waiting around to see if you’d show. I lost track of you around closing.”
“You were watching me? I didn’t even know you were here.”
“I wasn’t working, so I was trying to keep a low profile. I was hoping you’d call.”
“I couldn’t. But I wanted to,” I admit, the words out before I can fully consider them.
Surprise softens his features. “Good. Because honestly, I’ve been wondering if this is a good idea, me imposing on your space.”
“It’s a public library. I don’t own the space.”
“But I’m here because you’re in the space. So the question remains.”
“What question?”
“Do you want me to go? Because I’m thinking my optimism that you want my company is probably verging on arrogance.”
I feel fluttery, like I’m balancing between panic and giddiness. Which is about right. “You think you’re optimistic and arrogant?”
“In this case yes.” He meets my eyes. “I like you, Mallory. If you want to use the word crush, I’m pretty sure it would apply, but it would also make me feel like I’m twelve years old.”
I laugh, my heart speeding up again. This time it isn’t fear. Spencer is manageably cute, but his crush confession changes the playing field.
“How did no one catch you?”
“Clearly we’re both ninjas. Seriously, are you comfortable with me being here?”
“Yes,” I say softly, but when his face lights up, I add, “But you could get in trouble.”
“Eh, it’s a calculated risk. I actually have an important purpose for being here.”
“What’s that?”
“You said you didn’t know me.” He reaches for a messenger bag I hadn’t spotted. Pulls open a heavy canvas flap and tugs out two thick photo albums. “Here you go.”
I sink into a plastic chair across from him. “What is this?”
“Seventeen years of my mother getting her craft on.”
I run my hand over the leather cover. It’s thick and heavy. Obviously expensive and absolutely nothing like the cheap pastel baby book my mother has for me.
I open the cover and bite back a grin at the soulful-eyed baby with a mass of dark curls nestled in some sort of basket.
“Why are you in a basket?”
He waves his hands. “Oh, just wait. There are pumpkins and giant pillows. Our family photographer was obsessed with putting me in the weirdest crap you can imagine. There’s one of me in overalls hanging from a clothesline.”
My fingers glide under the gold scrolling letters of his name. Spencer James Keller. He lets me peruse without comment. It feels a little like spying, flipping through the pages of a life that isn’t mine. One-year-old Spencer coated in frosting from his hair to his belly, his grin not so different than the one he wears now. Toddler Spencer in an oversized hockey jersey, tiny ice skates laced onto his feet. The years pass, and I watch him grow as the backdrops change. Enormous Christmas trees and a velvety backyard. Beaches, mountains, and clustered buildings and brick streets that have to be somewhere in Europe.
I tap a finger on a picture in a pumpkin patch. Spencer with a girl who’s been in lots of the pictures. She’s close to his age, but blond with pale eyes.
“Who’s this?”
“My sister. Allison.”
I flip another page and see a family photo—the first one had been in full ski gear, so it was hard to see. But now I spot his mother’s pale hair and blue eyes. Allison has her coloring. His father’s hair is darker, but not like Spencer’s. And none of them have his bronze skin.
“You don’t resemble them much.”
“I’m adopted. Sadly, the blond and blue-eyed beauty wand passed me by.”
“Please. Like you’re hurting in the beauty department.”
“A compliment? Wow, that’s a surprise.”
I eye him. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t know this.”
He grins. “You are unlike any girl I’ve ever met.”
I feel electrified when he gazes at me with a hint of a smile. It’s not a good idea to get carried away with this guy, so I return my attention to the photo books. The second one becomes more sports-focused as he grows older. His awkward phase in junior high didn’t last long, though there’s a solid year of smiles with braces that explain his perfect teeth.
There are several photos featuring hockey equipment, jerseys, rinks, and adorably mussed hair. I watch him turn into the Spencer I know in these pictures, shoulders widening, cheekbones cutting through his boyish face, his long-lashed eyes turning from cute to mesmerizing in the picture where he’s holding up his first set of car keys.
“Ah, my license,” he says.
“You look thrilled. Did they buy you a car?”
“No, but we have enough of them. Mostly, I was thrilled I passed. Took me three tries.”
“Parallel parking?” I guess.
“Hit a cone every time.”
I flip through the last pages, noticing him strapped into ropes and clinging to the side of a cliff. It’s a shade of orange I’ve never believed rocks could be, the kind of orange seen on TV from the southwest, contrasting so sharply against the blue sky it seems impossible.
“Where is this?” I ask.
“Moab, Utah. Close to Arches National Park. That’s my third climb. I went eighty feet.”
“Ice hockey and rock climbing,” I say softly, closing the book and pushing them back. “Well, now I know your hobbies. And I know that you had a serious affinity for Batman Underoos when you were in kindergarten.”
He wags a finger at me. “Batman is the shit. I still wear those sometimes, you know.”
I laugh, and he takes the books, stacking them in his bag.
“Now do you know me?”
“I know more,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I lean back. “I don’t mean to stereotype, but you seem more sporty than bookish. How did you end up here?”
“Yeah, funny thing. I don’t actually work at the library in the traditional sense.”
Before the question can make it to my lips, he goes on.
“I’m here on mandatory community service. A nice-guy version of probation.”
“You’re
on probation?”
“No, but close enough.”
“What did you do?”
He swallows hard. “I climbed the library. Not my best life choice, but it might have been no big deal if I hadn’t broken a window on my way up.”
“Wait…you climbed the library. Like, the building?”
“Yeah.”
“On the outside?”
He palms the back of his neck. “Hearing you say it out loud, it does sound strange.”
“Do you often climb buildings?”
“Nope. Usually I climb at a gym, because I’m in Ohio. If I’m somewhere with mountains, outside is way better. I started in Colorado when I was thirteen. We went on a late skiing trip, but it was a weird, early spring. The snow was crap. Dad went to the bar, Mom went shopping, and Allison and I took a rock climbing class. It didn’t stick with Allison, but I loved it. I’ve climbed on every trip I could since. Utah, California, Switzerland.”
“You’ve been to so many places.”
“Only the touristy parts,” he says with a shrug.
“That must be tough.” I only mean to tease, but there’s a sharpness to my voice.
“Okay, that was a jerk thing to say. I have been to a lot of places. I just feel like I haven’t seen them, you know?”
I don’t know because I’ve never left Ohio. But I nod, and he goes on.
“Besides, no matter where I go, I always end up back here.”
“Oh, sure. How can you bear it with the pool house and all?” I smile, trying to get him to laugh, and failing.
“I’m the luckiest guy around,” he says, but he forces out the words like they hurt. “Seriously, I have it way too easy—the world on a proverbial silver platter.”
“You don’t want it,” I say, wonder filling my voice.
“I don’t think it matters,” he whispers, and then he shakes his head. “But whatever. I’m being an asshole. I have a good life. A nice family. These are not real problems.”
His smile is wide, but there’s nothing but hurt behind it, so much pain that my chest constricts with my next breath.
“You should be able to make choices about your life,” I say.
“Don’t.” He says it so softly that I freeze, feeling I’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Please.”
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