Not good. None of this is good. I move out into the hallway, between the stairs and the bathrooms. My pulse is thrumming, fast in my neck. I can’t stay out in that rain again. I can’t even walk to—
Voices and footsteps sound on the stairs, and my focus shifts to the small group heading down from the second floor. There are three of them, but my eyes fix on one familiar head of dark, wavy hair.
Spencer.
He’s coming down the stairs with a police officer and a man in a suit I don’t recognize. I stumble to an awkward halt, and he meets my eyes briefly. Then he turns to the officer, arm extended for a handshake.
For one terrifying second, I think he’s turning me in. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but I don’t know if I should run or where to go if I do. Before I can decide, he’s down the stairs, coming straight for me. He wraps his arm around my back, all friendly ease.
“I’m sorry I got caught up. You ready?”
I lick my lips to speak, but I’m struck mute by his sudden appearance, by the certainty of his voice, and the heavy warmth of his arm behind me. He leads me quickly to the check-out area, separating from me just long enough to grab his coat from the circulation office.
He is all smiles walking back out, but there’s fear lurking in his eyes. He leads me to the lobby, hand on the middle of my back. And then on my elbow. I burn everywhere he touches, my questions and thank yous all dried up in my mouth.
He stops at the door, giving me a genuine look. “Where’s your coat?”
“I…”
He doesn’t say another word, just peels his off and hands it over. It’s a heavy blue thing that feels expensive and still carries his heat. The sleeves hang four inches past my hands. I feel like a kid in an ill-fitting costume, but I’m not about to argue.
We’re down the stairs and halfway across the rainy lot when he pulls out a set of keys. A beautiful black car lights up and purrs to life.
“Can I give you a ride?” he asks, ice bits melting in his hair. “Please?”
I nod, and he steers me to the passenger side. The leather seats have warmers, and heat quickly permeates my soaked jeans. It’s better than a hot bath, and I can’t help but slouch back.
Spencer gets in the driver’s seat, knees crammed up around the steering wheel. He swears softly and hits a button and a series of whirs sends the seat into a more reasonable position.
“Mom’s car,” he says by explanation. “The automatic seat always resets to her.”
Right now, I don’t care if he’s stealing this car. I’m grateful to be inside it.
“Are you okay?” he asks “Did you get caught in the rain?”
“Yes and yes.” I exhale. “These heated seats are great.”
“Do you have anything dry you can wear?”
“Yeah, in my backpack,” I say, but I look around, skeptical. I’m not about to try to wriggle out of wet jeans in a car.
Spencer puts the car in reverse, but he doesn’t move. “We weren’t crazy last night. Someone was in the library.”
“They already painted over the message on the wall,” I say. “I thought the police would want to see it.”
“They did. And it had nothing on the writing in the supply room. Somebody wrote the same thing over and over in there. And when I mean over and over, I’m talking the whole wall. I’ve been upstairs for hours with the police.”
“Don’t your parents have to be there for them to talk to you?”
He nods. “That was part of the delay. Mom stopped by to sign the paper to allow Mr. Brooks to sit with me. She had a critical auction today. Big estate.”
My heart squeezes. “What did the police want to know?”
“I told them I thought I heard crying a couple of nights ago. And I told them other little stuff I’d seen. No specifics. They’re going to talk to my friends about this little girl Jarvey freaked out, but I don’t think it’ll get them anywhere.”
I swallow hard. “Will they want to talk to me too?”
“The police don’t know about you.” A muscle in his jaw jumps. “They’re not going to know about you.”
He pulls out of the spot, and I let out a slow breath, letting that sink in. More messages in the supply room? What is this all about?
“Doesn’t the library lock the supply room?”
He waggles his brows. “That’s the really creepy part. The police were here for two hours checking out the door and tiles in the ceiling. There are strange black smears around the library and tons in that room, but they have no idea how the person got inside.”
“Inside the room?”
“They didn’t find any evidence of a break-in, nothing that would explain this. It’s like someone materialized. They’re going to bring in dogs from Columbus to check upstairs, but that has to be scheduled.”
“I’m surprised they aren’t closing the library until they can figure it out.”
“They talked about it, but Mr. Brooks put the brakes on that. Said he wasn’t ready to halt library services over some writing on a wall. People need it.”
“Need it?”
“Job searches. Homework assistance. Public meeting space. He takes our services seriously.”
Spencer pulls up to a red light, and I realize we’re right back by the library. He’s basically driven us around a giant block.
“Did you forget something?” I ask.
“Yes. I forgot to ask you where you’d like me to take you. And by forgot, I mean I didn’t want to ask.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted more time with you, Mallory.”
My stomach tumbles end over end. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
Spencer smiles, and the light turns green.
I close my eyes and let him drive. It’s an incredible relief, having someone else make a couple of choices. A few minutes later, he parks in front of a restaurant called Rubino’s.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Home of the best lasagna in Ohio.”
“You’ve eaten all the lasagna in Ohio?”
“Don’t need to,” he says. “It’s the best.”
My stomach growls, and he laughs. “Well, at least I know you’re hungry. That’s step one.”
“What’s step two?”
“Letting the cheesy goodness of Rubino’s convince you that my offer to let you stay with me might not be so crazy. Before you start arguing, I’ll warn you that I’m picking up the tab. Because, as you know, I’m the Prince of Pillows and—”
“Spencer.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t need to convince me. Not tonight.”
Tears smear my vision into streaks of parking lot lights and wet pavement. The heat of this car and the sound of Spencer’s voice—the smell of him. It’s everywhere. Climbing right under my skin until I want…not this car or this life, but an existence closer to it than sleeping on a bathroom floor in a public library.
The first tears spill, and though I’m staring straight ahead, he must see. I feel his fingers against mine, solid and rough. He twines our hands together and squeezes. “This is not your story, Mallory. This is not where it ends, all right?”
“Okay.”
“Look at me.”
I don’t.
“Look at me. Please.”
It’s the please that gets me. This boy has everything I don’t. It’s easy for him to make promises of golden horizons. And sitting in this warm car with him so close, it’s easy for me to hear him. I don’t even swipe the tears off my cheeks. I let them be, and I let him see.
“You will find your way out of this,” he says.
Something sparks to life in my chest. I think it’s the part of me that wants to believe him.
Spencer
Sunday, November 19, 7:12 p.m.
&
nbsp; Mallory is changed and warmer by the time the double slab of lasagna I order arrives. It’s on a platter big enough for Mallory to sit on. She eats every bit of her half and two pieces of garlic bread. And she sits on the bench in the booth like I did in preschool, crisscross-applesauce with her legs folded.
“Okay, time for the Rubino’s tradition.” I point to a sign above the pizza oven.
Make a Wish.
She laughs. “I don’t believe in wishes.”
“C’mon. Everybody has a wish. I think you should pick three.”
“What?”
“Three wishes. That’s what the genie always gives people, right?”
Her face screws up, and she takes a drink of her soda. “What are your three wishes?”
“Ah, I see. You’re going to cheat. But fine. My three wishes.” I tick them off my fingers. “To climb Cassin Ridge in Denali. To have a lifetime supply of Lemonheads.”
“Lemonheads? Gross.”
“Are you finished judging my wishes?” She laughs, and I tick off my third finger. “To do something with my life that feels right.”
“I’ll think on it,” she says, but I can tell she won’t. She cocks her head, ready to change the subject. “So who do you think is in the library? Personally, I’m hoping like hell all my years of logic are wrong, and it’s a ghost.”
“Wait. You’re hoping the library is haunted?”
She shrugs. “Sure. What’s a ghost going to do? Rattle some chains? Moan in the attic?”
“Interesting point. Plus, if it’s a ghost, you could name it. Casper. Or Scrooge.”
She shakes her head. “Scrooge isn’t the ghost. He’s the crotchety old rich guy.”
“Probably a throw pillow tycoon. That’s how all the guys get rich.”
She sighs. “That’s just your bubble of privilege talking, Spencer.”
“My bubble of privilege?”
“Yes. Don’t you listen to talk radio?”
“Does anyone?”
“Not from inside their bubbles of privilege.”
I laugh. “Are you always this fast with the comebacks?”
She chews her bottom lip like it’s an important question. “I think so. I used to be anyway. Mom and I used to banter back and forth all the time. Once upon a time.”
“What changed?”
Her face frosts over. “Charlie.”
I put down my fork, feeling like I took a puck to the gut. “Mallory, does this guy…”
“No.” She lets out a harsh laugh. “Whatever you’re going to ask, no. I know it’s ridiculous, but some days I think it would be easier if he hit us.”
“It wouldn’t be,” I say, and she nods quickly.
“You’re right. I know.” Then she frowns. “Could we maybe not? Just for now.”
“Definitely,” I say.
A commotion at the counter catches my eye. My heart sinks when I spot the familiar group. Jarvey and Isaac and Alex’s girlfriend, Ava.
“Friends of yours.” Mallory nods at them. “Right?”
“Hockey friends,” I say. “They were the ones in the library.”
She tenses and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am. Have the police already talked to them? Shit, is that why Alex isn’t here? He doesn’t deserve to be mixed up in this, so I hope not.
“They might come over here,” I say.
Ava mouths hi and waves. Jarvey bumps his chin at me, and they’re on their way.
“Lackluster effort today,” Jarvey says instead of hello.
“My luster fields are barren,” I say with a shrug.
“Wasn’t that bad,” says Isaac. “Hell, did you see Joe? Kid needs to stick with lacrosse.”
“Renner sucks,” Jarvey says, “but you’re having a lousy year, Keller.”
I turn to Mallory. “Mallory, this is Ava, Isaac, and Jarvey. Ava and Isaac go to school with me. Jarvey is an asshole we know.”
Ava and Isaac laugh, and Jarvey puts on a face like he’s affronted, but he’s not. He likes being the guy who scowls in pictures and takes everything too seriously. Brilliant as he is on the ice, he’s been a total drag since the fourth grade.
“Spencer is harsh. Jarvey is a charmer when you get to know him,” Isaac says, looking Mallory up and down with a wolfish smile.
“No, he’s really not.” Ava extends her hand and a genuine grin. I’ve always liked Ava, and she’s not losing any points now. “It’s nice to meet you Mallory. Do you go to Hartley?”
Bishop Hartley is a Catholic school nearby. A decent ask.
“No, I’m in a small school.”
“So is this what you’ve been doing with your time?” Jarvey asks, his eyes on the lasagna but pointing the question at Mallory all the same.
“Careful, Jarv, your Neanderthal is showing,” Ava says.
“Don’t be a bitch, Ava,” Jarvey says. “I’m grabbing our pizza.”
Isaac follows Jarvey to the counter, calling back to us. “You should come. We’re going to Shawn’s. Alex is coming later.”
“Bring the girl if you must,” Jarvey says, not looking back as he pushes the door open.
“Yep,” Ava says, winking at Mallory, “total asshole. Shockingly, he hasn’t dated anyone seriously in two years.”
“Stunner,” Mallory says. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“You too. And definitely join us if you want. We’ll keep our resident jerk in line. Bye, Spence!”
When they head outside, Mallory grabs another piece of garlic bread and gazes at the pinball machine in the back corner.
“Does nothing rattle you?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I live in a library. I’m kind of unflappable.”
“Well, you don’t live there tonight.”
To my utter shock, she doesn’t argue.
• • •
The unflappable crap goes out the window when we pull up to my house. The foyer lamp is on, which means Mom is home. I can practically feel Mallory tense when she figures it out.
“Someone’s home,” she says. “Keep driving. You can drop me at the end of the block.”
I do keep driving, but I’m not sure why. Coming here was the point. “Mom and Allison are probably zoned out watching TV or asleep.”
“I can’t do this. I can’t sneak around your property like some kind of criminal.”
“Then let’s go inside. We can hang out and watch TV. They probably won’t even notice you’re here.”
“But if they do, they’ll ask me questions. I’m too nervous.”
I doubt it would be an inquisition, but she’s right about the too nervous part. She’s breathing fast and super pale. Mom will pick up on that in a hot second if she is downstairs.
“Okay, then don’t come in. You can wait three minutes and head back to the pool house. There’s a gate on the side fence. If you follow the fence, you can go around the back and let yourself in the door. It’s never locked, and no one will be able to see you.”
“Unless they look out one of the eighty windows across the back of your house.”
“They can look all they want. It’s dark back there. But stay close to the fence and the building. If you get too close to the pool or the main house, the security lights will come on.”
“Comforting.” She lets out a shaky breath. Her fear is palpable.
“Relax. I’ll distract them if they’re down there, and then I’ll come out when it’s safe.”
“What reason could you possibly have to go out to a pool house in November?”
I wave that off. “I’ve got a couple of old-school game systems out there. It’s not unheard of for me to go somewhere in my own house, Mallory.”
“House.” She scoffs. “It’s practically a freaking estate.”
“Try to calm down. It’s b
etter than trying to break into the library where the police are almost certainly patrolling tonight, right?”
“Right.” She squares her shoulders. “Tell me again how to get inside.”
Mallory
Sunday, November 19, 9:48 p.m.
It must be instinct that drives me through the back gate and onto the crisp grass of Spencer’s lawn. It certainly isn’t learned behavior because before all this, I’d never so much as served a detention in school. Now I’m breaking and entering.
Well, entering at least. Nothing is actually locked. He said it wouldn’t be, but it’s hard to imagine that—doors and gates left open for the whole world. I guess people hanging around a neighborhood like this have their own gates to open and their own houses to indulge in.
Inside the fence, I keep close to the tall decorative grass in the flowerbed lining the fence. It hisses against my clothes so I slow my pace, wincing at the noise. The house is ablaze, wide bright windows revealing the kitchen, where I ate cold pizza, and the beautiful living room.
A flash of pale hair and a woman’s face appear at the kitchen window. I stop midstep, my heart dropping through my stomach. In the glass her expression appears startled, as if she’s seen me, but then she turns around with a smile. For a second, I don’t get it, but then I realize it’s Spencer. Her son is home. All his comments about throw pillows aside, this is where he lives, and she is his mother.
It hurts, thinking this, because there’s a whisper right behind it, one that asks what it would be like to belong in a home with a mother who… I force my eyes away because there’s no reason to go there. I won’t ever have these things. Maybe one day I won’t even want them.
I remind myself that tonight is about staying safe and getting some sleep. Then tomorrow, I can learn more about Charlie’s ex-fiancée, Billie Reeves. Maybe there is some evidence that Charlie is as dangerous as I suspect. If I can prove it, Mom will have to leave.
Time to move. I walk sideways, until I can cross to the back wall of the pool house. I’m grateful for the darkness under the roof’s edge. I inch my way around it, staying in the shadows, my hand dragging along the rough brick wall.
What You Hide Page 14