Page 143 of Darling Venom
I didn’t go to the New York Public Library in Midtown West to dispose of the precious, pricey paperbacks. No. That was the touristy, well-loved, wealthy library everyone knew and cared about.
Kellan would have hated knowing his books had ended up there.
I went to the one I’d frequented every week since I was a kid. The New York Society Library.
I’d already deposited the precious Wizard of Oz first editions with three trusty librarians I knew—Doris, Henry, and Faye. They’d fawned and patted them like they were newly born unicorns.
Not that it did anything to dull the what the heck? feeling I’d left Tate’s house with that night.
But unlike Kellan, I excelled at pretending everything was okay.
I glanced at the time on my phone. Forty minutes until my lunch break ended.
The rows upon rows of novels relaxed me. Between the heavy, dark oak and the thick tomes, I felt at home. Warm and safe.
I slung my courier bag over my shoulder and relished the silence, fingering a novel—Jane Eyre—at the same time someone from the aisle in front of me touched it.
I withdrew quickly.
So did the person behind the screen of books.
I watched the book intently to see if they’d take it. They didn’t. I smiled to myself and proceeded along the aisle, my eyes gliding over the stack of hardbacks.
The person ambled along at the exact same pace, a big shadow I could see through the cracks of neatly lined-up books. Whoever it was, they were tall. At least a head and a half taller than me, anyway.
A man, probably.
I told myself not to panic and willed my heart to chill out. But the slower I walked, the slower the person walked.
I decided to test him. I stopped again, pawing a volume of The Green Dwarf that sat beside eight identical copies. The person behind the curtain of books stopped, too.
My mouth hung open, my pulse skyrocketing into oblivion.
Boom, boom.
Boom.
I touched the novel, placing my index finger on the top of its spine. The person from the other side did the same, touching the back cover.
It occurred to me that he was seeing completely different spines, and he’d picked Jane Eyre because I’d touched it, not because he’d wanted to read it. He probably couldn’t even pull it out all the way.
I swallowed hard. I should turn around and leave. It was exactly my luck to fall prey to a serial library masturbator.
Glancing around, I confirmed there was no one here.
Just me and this person.
Jesus.
I stepped back, withdrawing my hand from the book. Invisible ants ran up and down my limbs.
Get out of here, Charlie.
I turned around, about to race down the aisle.
Finally, the person on the other side opened their mouth.
“I have a confession to make.”
