Page 39 of If Books Could Kill
The sound of ragged breathing fills my ears, and only when it gets louder do I realize it’s not just from me. I look up to see Grant running his last few steps toward me, then keeling over with his hands on his knees.
“What?” I bark at him. “Where’s your bike?”
“I left it,” he rasps. “I thought it would slow me down.”
“What was so important that it was worth royally fucking up our first assignment?”
He finally looks up at me, breathing hard.
“Anna Matthews,” he says. “I think I saw her.”
I let myself glower at him for one more moment, then jerk a thumb behind me to the carriage.
“Get in.”
• • •
OF COURSEIdon’t believe Grant. There’s no way he simply happened upon the exact person we need to find, in a city ofmillions, a day after we arrived in the country; I’m sure he just saw some woman who vaguely matches her description and jumped at the chance to abort mission. But,God, am I looking forward to unleashing my pent-up fury when I prove him wrong.
It isn’t easy, but I manage to pedicab our way back in one piece, with only one near-miss by a black cab whose driver flashes two fingers at me. I reciprocate with a sarcastic peace sign of my own.
“That’s not what that means,” Grant pipes up from the back. “It meansup yourshere.”
I hate that he knows these things. I lower my index finger and turn my hand around formykind of bird-flipping. And then angle it back to Grant.
“Nice. Thank you,” he says.
I pull up curbside to the bookstore Anna allegedly walked into, jumping awkwardly from the bike seat as Grant clambers out of the back. Before I can reach the door, Grant grabs my shoulder.
“There,” he says, pointing down the street. “There, that’s her.”
I turn, casting my skeptical glare toward the person in question, and freeze at the sight of a familiar head of curly auburn hair swishing away. The woman tucks a Sharpie into her bag and breaks into a light jog straight toward a waiting bus. When she turns to board, there’s no mistaking that profile. It’s her.
I cannot fucking believe this.
“Anna!” I shout, taking off after her. Grant runs and yells alongside me, both of us waving our arms and calling her name. But the doors close well before we can reach them, and the bus speeds off down the street.
As it passes, I catch sight of her in the window: Anna Matthews, smiling to herself as if lost in reverie. Probably dreaming up new nightmares for us.
Grant and I stand there, helplessly watching the bus disappearinto the throng of traffic. It’s the kind of coincidence even Anna wouldn’t allow her characters—and here it is, slipping through our fingers.
We were only supposed to catch one person today, and now we’ve losttwo. It all ignites a brush fire of irritation within me, mingling with my wasted adrenaline until it erupts in a frustrated scream. A flock of startled pigeons takes flight nearby. Grant winces.
“I tried to tell you,” he says.
“Whydidn’t you stop her?” I snap. “You could have followed her into the store!”
He stares at me. “Are you genuinely mad at me for not abandoning you with a serial killer?”
“A serial killerthat I was supposed to catch! Andyouwere supposed to help me. But no, instead you had to scare him off with yourMission: Impossibleroutine.”
He squares his shoulders. “That’s not all my fault, you know. Your little performance of Swedish Tourist Number One had to have thrown him. You sounded like the chef from the Muppets.”
“Yeah, theSwedishChef!”
Grant offers up what can only be described as a full-body eye roll, throwing up his hands and turning away from me.
“Thisisyour fault, and you know it,” I say. “Either go find Anna or stick with our plan—but don’t screw up both just because you don’t think I can handle myself.”
