Page 7 of Unlocking Ruin

After swiping the card over the keypad, the library door clicks open. I made this card a year ago. Yes, it’s kind of illegal, but I could argue I’m studying.

Is the door always this heavy, or is panic sapping my muscles? Leaning back, I grunt as I heave it open. Inside, I pull the hoodie further over my head. I race up the stairs and hide between the aisles.

The musty smell of old books worsens my nerves; the stale air twisting my stomach. At this rate, I’ll grind my teeth to nubs. I’m sure some man out there has a kink for a nubby, granny jaw to give them a blow job.

Yuck! My shoulders raise to my ears at the thought.

Reaching for the sleeves of my hoodie, I curl the hems into my fists and try to relax my jaw as I walk toward the right section. Another wave of heat surges through me. If this keeps up, I’ll hit menopause before I’m thirty.

Shit. I probably need a doctor. Or a shrink. Maybe both. Might as well get a full workup on how badly I’ve messed up my life—just to fuck it up more, of course.

The illuminated path before my eyes trembles as my hand shakes, causing the faint glow of my phone’s flashlight to wobble. Libraries are supposed to be quiet, but after hours, with no whispers, no pages turning, and no carts rolling by, it’s like I’ve stepped into my own horror movie.

Am I the idiot girl who walks straight into the killer’s knife?

My deep sigh drives me forward. I run my fingers along the book spines. “I hate you!” I seethe, as tears fill my eyes.

I detest fiction books. They make us believe in happy endings, but they don’t exist. There will be no Prince Charming or fairy godmother; better buckle up, this carriage ride isn’t paved with smooth stone leading to a castle. And the castle? Oh, honey, ever heard of taxes? You’re getting a miserable apartment infested with bugs and roommates who don’t give a shit about you.

I wonder what dear old Mommy thinks of me now. She and Frank never thought I’d have the balls to turn on them. When they left—leaving me behind—they were probably laughing, sick with greed. Fifty million will do that to you.

They should have landed twenty minutes ago, arrived at their Swiss mansion and… found the account empty. No money. No escape.

Glancing at the clock on my phone, I note I now have five minutes and fifty-six, fifty-five, fifty-four seconds before BANKS Corp receives the email I sent to the founders.

Deep down, I always knew I was a mistake in my mom’s eyes. It’s fine. I refuse to let her anger over stretch marks in her early twenties ruin my life. Mom did pretty well for herself. Married up, up, up. Yes, three divorces, that’s impressive. Mom was stunning, but now the Botox and day drinking, along with a pharmacy of antidepressants, have turned her into the monster she is on the inside.

Dad? As in my real dad? Don’t know, don’t care.

The sad part is, I did it all to keep my mom safe. I was a kid who liked computers, so Frank started teaching me. It wasn’t out of love. I did what he asked. The first jobs were small; it banked him a few thousand. Then Bitcoin happened, and once he was paid in digital currency, it was much easier for him to cover our tracks. At twelve, I finally began to register the fucked-up shit he had me doing. It was no longer fun and games; this was all stolen money. But then Frank raised a hand to my mom. So I did what he asked so he wouldn’t hit her again.

That’s all behind you now.

I run my tongue over the bite on my inner cheek, needing to feel the sting. Hurrying, I reach the rack where I hid the evidence. No one comes to this section of the school library; it’s the religious section, and since the students here are richer than God, they don’t need him.

I feel like I need him right now, but I don’t know what I’d say.

Dust stirs as I squat down and grab the Latin Bible. I set it aside and reach behind the rack. I wiggle my fingers to the right, where my laptop should be. I grasp… air!

“What the fuck?” I snatch my hand back.

Nothing?!

Books fly as I yank them off the shelf, exposing the empty wall my laptop usually cuddles up to.

“Looking for this?”

My shriek is avalanche-inducing. Dropping my phone, the light shines up on the ceiling. Falling, my ass hits the pile of books I threw down—a book spine in your crack is not comfortable.

A shadow looms closer, its presence so thick it feels like a cork is shoving itself down my throat. My heart is about to flatline from beating too fast.

Am I suddenly in Game of Thrones and Brienne of Tarth is here to rescue me? Unlikely.

That means this is a man with shoulders that wide and God’s gift of height. His shadow stretches out over me as he looms closer. His face is covered in a balaclava, because of course, why not? After all, I’m breaking into the library—I should have worn one too.

His thick lashes cast long, scary-looking shadows over his eyes, making them look soulless.

Soft pages press into my palm as I grab a book and hurl it at him. The problem is, when I was forced to play softball in elementary school, I accidentally threw the ball in my own face. I blamed it on gravity, not my hands. After that, I got an excuse note. I had to do track instead, so I’m kind of good at running, but that would require me to stand.