Burning Books

by Sharon Gerlach

  Magnus cranked down the window. “Hurry it up, Molly! I have an appointment.”

  “His shrink. Sensory-processing disorder, you said?”

  He nodded. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath, opened them again to find him holding up his business card, just as self-possessed as ever. What would it take to rattle this man? She would find out soon enough. After all, he wanted to see if the next book burned. That had to be something he’d never experienced before.

  “All right. I’ll trust you with this unless you give me a reason not to. But let’s not tell Magnus right now, all right?”

  His smile knocked her senseless. It curled through her, a tranquil invasion she had no desire to fight. “Thank you, Molly.”

  She plucked the card from his fingers. “I’ll be in touch.” Before that smile could disarm her again, she scooted into the car and closed the door. He watched them drive away from the spot where she’d left him standing, a tall, broad-shouldered figure huddled against the cold breeze that threaded its fingers through his hair. Then Magnus turned a corner, and Cary Welch was gone.

  They dropped Joyce off first, and Molly walked her to the door so they could talk away from Magnus, who was turning surly the closer his appointment loomed.

  “I kept waiting for you to say something during lunch,” Joyce admitted. “You no doubt noticed that he’s not a chemistry expert.”

  “I noticed,” Molly replied dryly. “You could have just told me beforehand.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d still want to keep the appointment. He’s very anxious to help you, and he’s intrigued by the books. Plus, he’ll keep it discreet.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” She paused, then went on with studied casualness, “He’s a very interesting man.”

  Joyce stopped, her foot poised to take the next step up to her porch. “He’s married, Molly.”

  Her heart shouldn’t feel so disillusioned. The only excuse Molly had for its sinking to her feet was that another interesting, attractive man within shouting distance was, yet again, a married one. Were there no interesting single men left anywhere?

  “Well, damn. That figures. His wife’s a lucky lady.”

  Joyce didn’t respond at first. She scuffed the sole of her shoe against the edge of the step, scraping off spring mud and other debris.

  “Maybe not so lucky. She vanished sometime during the missing year. One among many, I suppose, but still, it must be hard. He hasn’t stopped searching since the superstorm.”

  Yes, one among many, and she’d met two in as many days. How many people did she pass every day who lived with the mystery of a loved one’s vanishing? Children lost, wives absent, husbands gone, each without a trace, all potential clues locked inside frozen electronic-data systems. Her father had always said the world relied too much on computers. In the aftermath of the solar superstorm, his dire prediction seemed like prophecy. The chaos of the world had settled, although no one could deny that the world economy was in the sewer. The stock-market crash of 1929 was a small disaster compared to the solar superstorm last year.

  “I hope he finds her. Those eyes should have someone to adore them.”

  Joyce barked out a laugh and gave Molly a one-armed hug. “Thank you for not being angry.”

  “How could I be angry? I was probably in high school when he got married. He’d have been arrested.”

  “You nut. I meant about bringing Cary instead of his father, not about him getting married. But getting help for you seemed the most important thing. I didn’t want you messing about with those books with no information or warning.”

  Molly’s humor vanished. While Cary Welch’s positive reaction to the books reassured her, Magnus’s increasing fear of them threaded apprehension through that reassurance, robbing any peace it might have brought.

  “Do you think they’re safe to read?”

  “If Cary says they are, then they are,” Joyce said with absolute confidence, and then launched into a detailed exegesis of Cary’s education, training, and general experience. Molly fuzzed out partway through a glowing laudation of his extensive training in paranormal psychology, because she suddenly remembered that she had dressed for bed last night but had woken up in street clothes. And hadn’t she left her bedroom door unlocked?

  Joyce paused her monologue, peering at Molly with concern. “Molly, is something wrong?”

  Molly dragged herself back to the present with difficulty. “Yes, I’m sorry. I just remembered something I needed to do. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Nonsense. You look exhausted. You should go home and take a nap.”

  “I will.”

  Her friend tuned her eyes on Magnus, who now looked downright irate. “Is it safe to ride home with him? He looks very angry.”

  Molly smiled. “He’ll be fine as soon as I’m back in the car and he can control his timetable. Thank you for everything, Joyce.”

  They hugged briefly, and Molly hurried back to the car, climbing in beside her scowling brother, who gunned the engine and screeched away from the curb. She bit back her admonishment that perhaps if he’d told her he had a meeting today, they could have wrapped up their lunch earlier; it would only infuriate him further. Because he thrived on the expected, being late to any function made him anxious and snarly. When he was on time, he knew what to expect. Walking in late brought with it various possible scenarios that sparked his anxiety, and each was laden with the potential to ignite the short fuse of his temper.

  By the time he pulled in the driveway at home, his temper had calmed, and his driving had returned to a sane level.

  Molly opened her door. “Will you make it in time?”

  “Yeah, should be no problem.” He fidgeted, his guilt over his temper making him reluctant to meet her eyes.

  “Good. Annis has a roast in the oven, and I was thinking of making a cobbler for dessert. Will you be home for dinner?”

  “Probably. Maybe. Depends on if Cecily wants to do anything tonight.”

  “All right. Drive safe.” She leaned across the seat to kiss his cheek. He leaned away. She waited until he stopped moving, then pecked his cheek lightly, smiling at the face he made.

  As she was closing the car door, he called out, “Are you going to read those books, Molly?” He glared pointedly at the silk-wrapped bundle in her hands. The wrapping was coming undone. Tired of messing with it, Molly tucked the silk scarf into her pocket.

  “Well,” he said before she could respond, his mouth twisting in a smug smile as he gazed at the spines. “I guess you won’t get very far if you do.”

  She turned the spines to see what he meant. The bitter pall of disappointment at seeing she held only volumes two and six based on the numbers embossed in the leather was tempered by the thrill of knowing she would be in contact with Cary Welch again soon. Very soon.

  Married, Molly. Keep that in mind.

  She wasn’t likely to forget it. But the solar storm was a year in the past, taking with it the memories of thirteen months. Who knew what had transpired between Cary Welch and his missing wife during that year? Perhaps he was starting to consider moving on. He wouldn’t be the first one to build a new life following the natural catastrophe.

  “See you later, sis.”

  She shut her door. Leaving her with only a cutting grin to soothe her dismay, he backed down the driveway and sped off the road without sparing her another glance. Disgruntled, Molly went into the house, hung up her coat in the entry closet, and went to make a cup of tea. She would read as far as the second book took her, and then she would put to use that business card Cary Welch had given her, far sooner than she had anticipated.

  Settled into her chair, the gas fire burning cozily behind her, the roast in the oven scenting the air with tantalizing aromas, a warm afghan over her lap, Molly at last opened the book to continue Idiot Woman’s story, which apparently had become a ghost story. She loved a good ghost story, and truth be told, she felt a little less anxious about the books when she thou
ght of them in terms of a haunting than she did when she thought of them in terms of a stalker.

  Then, with one sentence, Idiot Woman destroyed her misguided sense of peace.

  But ghosts don’t bring Starbucks Skinny Cinnamon Dolce lattes. Perhaps they can manage sea glass and daisies and absconding with necklaces and locking doors, but I don’t think they can order up a latte at the local coffee shop. And Seattleites are likely to notice if their newly ordered latte just happens to vanish before their eyes.

  So . . . no ghost means no haunting. And no haunting means someone has been in my house. While I sleep. More than once. It took me a long time to realize the significance of the necklace. Of all the things that could have been taken, only my precious necklace was. And then it was returned, conveniently on a day I’d be seeing its giver.

  I’d been so careful. Colored my hair. Wore colored contact lenses. Went by an assumed name. Lived in a tiny little house with few neighbors, well below the standard to which I’d been accustomed all my life. No brick mansions here. No junior executives climbing the ladder and courting the boss’s daughter with their too-expensive cologne and their too-hungry aggressiveness. No fancy friends and yacht-club lunches and operas at McCaw Hall and interminable dinners with stuffy colleagues.

  There was nothing to tie me to my old life, and yet—he had found me.

  So, the peril was psychological, not supernatural. Molly swallowed her disappointment that Idiot Woman wasn’t being haunted. Hauntings made such good stories—horrifying and fearsome but ultimately safe. But literally anyone could be the victim of a psychological game of cat-and-mouse. She liked her fiction with a healthy dose of the unreal and avoided reading crime and psychological thrillers; the potential for such events being or becoming true made her nervous, as though killers lurked around every corner watching for an opportunity to torment her. And look—just reading this story had caused her to think she had dressed for bed last night when in fact she had fallen asleep fully dressed. Or had she simply dreamed she’d prepared for bed when really she had fallen asleep on top of the covers while she read?

  A shuffling behind her made her jump. Annis was moving through the gloom, turning on a few strategic lamps to chase away the dark.

  “Had a nice nap, did you, Molly?”

  Molly closed the book in surprise. “Was I asleep?”

  “I brought in the teapot and a plate of shortbread, but you were sound sleep in your chair. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. Would you like a snack before then?”

  “No, but thank you, Annis. Has Magnus returned yet?”

  “No, but I heard your phone ring a little while ago. Perhaps he has plans.” Her mouth compressed into a line of very British disapproval.

  “That’s all right. We’ll have plenty of leftovers, which will make lunch a breeze tomorrow.”

  Annis snagged her cup of cold tea and paused before leaving the room. “Magnus really should be the one napping. He came home at three in the morning and was up and out again by seven.”

  “Really? Well, that’s strange, isn’t it?”

  Annis shrugged and whisked her cold tea off to the kitchen. Molly marked her page and set the book aside. While she was freshening up for dinner, she would simply assure herself that she hadn’t left any pajamas lying about in a somnambulant change of wardrobe.

  Annis had made her bed, smoothing the rumpled covers she had left behind after her hasty exodus to see Joyce. The clothes were still in the hamper, though, because while she cooked and cleaned for them, Annis did not do their laundry. Molly pawed through the hamper, searching for evidence of nightclothes. There was the sleeveless flannel nightshirt she’d worn two nights ago, and the tank-and-boy-shorts combo she’d worn the night before. A filmy negligee she’d donned on her last laundry day because she’d put her clothes in the dryer too close to bedtime to wear her usual nightclothes. She dropped it with undue haste, her cheeks burning. She didn’t even know why she had it or where it had come from. Her scars made her too self-conscious to indulge in casual intimate affairs, so she had no need for lingerie.

  She found no sign of the fleece pajamas she’d changed into before bed. She moved from the bathroom to her closet, flicking on the light switch. Walk-in closet, she thought of it, but really, it was a small, windowless room lined with drawers and hanging rods, an elegant round, tufted ottoman in the center. The bank of drawers closest to the door held her nightclothes. Her hand trembled in anticipation as she opened one after the other, sorting through them in search of the red camisole. It would be easy to identify; made of see-through, clingy, blood-red lace, with wide lace straps and a pair of matching panties. Far more risqué than she usually purchased; far less suggestive than the negligee she’d worn the other night. Sometimes she came across something in her wardrobe that caused little ripples of fear because she couldn’t remember buying it or wearing it; it wasn’t even her style.

  At last, at the back of the bottom drawer, her seeking hand encountered lace. She pulled it out, her triumphant smile fading when she saw the chocolate-brown camisole in her hand. It was edged with lace but not made from it. She remembered buying it, remembered tucking it into the back of the drawer, although she couldn’t remember why she had done so. It had just seemed as though the time had arrived to stop wearing it.

  She tossed the rest of her drawers, searching for red lace, finding none. In the depths of the last drawer—her underwear drawer—she found a scrap of black lace too scant to be called panties. She stared at it a moment before dropping it back in and slamming the drawer closed.

  No fleece pajamas. And none of it red, but lace aplenty could be found in her closet. Lace she didn’t remember purchasing. Lingerie she couldn’t recall even considering. Her eyes crawled over the clothes bars, picking out every anomaly of her wardrobe with ease, as though they were highlighted with giant arrows over them. A sexy red dress with a plunging V-neck front. A simple, backless halter dress that looked respectable at first glance until you noticed the built-in push-up bra cups under the low-cut sweetheart neckline and the sheer fabric draping in see-through layers. A clinging, green sweater dress with a revealing boat neck and a scandalously high hemline. A flowing sequined blouse with only one button—right between the breasts. All clothes she had seen for months but that she had subconsciously dismissed. She didn’t wear them; she didn’t really even notice them. Therefore, she didn’t question them.

  It wasn’t the clothes she was questioning now. At this very moment, standing in a closet peppered with items she couldn’t imagine ever wearing, she wondered just what in the hell she’d done during that missing year.

  ∞

  Because only three pages remained in the second book, she decided to call Cary Welch while Magnus was still out. Even though her brother kept to himself much of the time, he had an uncanny ability to suck away all her free time when there was something in particular she wanted to do. Besides, she didn’t want his undisguised and completely irrational animosity toward Cary to ruin her conversation with him.

  Perched on the very edge of the chair beside her bed, her phone in one hand and his business card in the other, she made a futile attempt to quell her sudden jitters, reasoning that it was simply excitement to see if the second book burned like the first had. A traitorous—and perhaps more honest—part of her conceded that the majority of her excitement lay in seeing Cary Welch again. His magnificent eyes and all that was attached to them intrigued her.

  The phone burred in her ear. Its heat—and nerves—made her palms sweat. The burring stopped, and her trembling fingers convulsively closed over his business card, warping it beyond hope of ever lying flat again.

  “Cary Welch.” His voice filled the line, a pleasant baritone with throaty undertones, like a caress from gentle hands with work-roughened skin.

  “Dr. Welch, it’s Molly McKinley. We had lunch today. At the Oyster Bar & Grill at Anthony’s. You have my books.” She closed her eyes and willed her tongue to stop.


  His tone held a trace of amusement. “Indeed. It’s a pleasure to speak to you again so soon, Molly.”

  She considered hanging up. Calling him so soon was way too forward, and pushy besides. He could barely have had time to examine the books, let alone form any conclusions.

  “Molly?”

  Her face flamed. “I’m sorry. Yes. I’m calling because . . .” Those stunning eyes of yours are all I can think of. “I’ve nearly reached the end of the next book, and you expressed an interest in seeing if it . . . well, if it bursts into flames like the first one did.”

  “I would be exceptionally interested.” He purred his reply. Literally, purred. The tremor in her hands spread to her knees. She smoothed her blanket over her legs, dropping his card. It fluttered to the floor. When she whisked the blanket off to reach for it, the fringe swept it under her chair. She slid off the seat and onto her knees, half crawling under her chair to retrieve it, and dropped the phone. Jesus.

  Her hand snatched it up, slamming it to her ear just in time to hear him say, “To get together?”

  “I-I’m sorry, I missed the first part of that. My phone cut out.”

  “I asked when you would like to get together.”

  Her nerves completely fragmented. A cold tingle fizzed its way from her face, through her scalp, and down the back of her head, spreading to all parts beyond. Her brow broke out in a clammy sweat.

  “Oh, I don’t want to impose. I mean, I know you’re busy. I just thought I would mention I was close to the end of this one. It’s all right. I can always pick up the next one when you have time, and you can watch that one burn. I mean, if it really does burn. It might not, you know. It might have been a one-time thing. Who knows what each book might do? They could all be rigged differently, and then wouldn’t it be a disappointment if we’re waiting for a book to burn, and it simply . . . I don’t know . . . all the ink vanishes or something. I’d hate to waste your time. Really, it’s all right if you—”

  “Molly.” Mortified, she stopped babbling. His quiet command was infused with undeniable amusement and a hint of delight. “I’d love to take the chance of the book not burning. Or the ink vanishing. Or nothing happening at all. It doesn’t matter. It would hardly be a waste of my time when I’d be spending that time in such intriguing company.”