11. Marie
11
MARIE
Under normal circumstances, if I saw Mrs. Wasserman’s mop of white curls skimming just barely over the top of the freestanding shelves in the children’s section, the Jaws theme song would play in my head. It always does.
Today is not normal.
In fact, my head is disturbingly empty as I greet her. “Hi, Mrs. Wa?—”
She holds up a hand to silence me. It might be intimidating if she wasn’t four and a half feet tall and weighed less than one of my thighs. The bone-thin woman was my third, fourth, and fifth-grade teacher, like most of us who went to Auclair Elementary School.
She’s in her usual black boots and black dress, buttoned up to the chin and flowing around her ankles. How she can stand it in this heat, I have no idea. But she’s worn an outfit like it ever since her husband died before I was born. “I’m searching for a proper cookbook for cooking Thai cuisine.”
That’s the one area she experiments in. Her food.
“Right this way.” I begin to lead her to the cookbooks—as if she doesn’t know where they are—and as I turn the corner, the faint chime of the front door’s bell lingers in the air. Hugo left. Even though he’s gone, my pulse is racing, my heart thudding like I just ran a marathon.
I swallow and continue toward the cookbooks. They’re near the paltry anatomy section, so I look. He didn’t even take a book.
Not that he needed it. If anyone knows everything about anatomy, it’s Hugo, Sam, and Trick. For that matter, I’m pretty sure Hugo doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, which means he didn’t come to the library for the anatomy books at all.
He came for…me.
The thought makes my stomach flip, my face heating all over again as I replay our conversation. The way he asked about last night, the way he looked at me when he asked if I’d put on the same show for him and Sam—his voice low, his dark eyes watching me so intently I thought I’d melt on the spot.
Two finger-snaps shock me from my daze. “The books, Marie. You were always a daydreamer, weren’t you?”
I can barely force a smile, but my inner southern girl won’t let me be impolite. “We all have our vices, don’t we? Here we are. I think it’s just the one book, so I hope it works for you. If not, I can order one from another library.”
“That’ll do fine. I’d like something for my roses too.”
“Of course.” Her damn roses. Since she retired, they’re practically her new pets. The books swore up and down she couldn’t get this particular variety to grow in Louisiana, but she made it happen. The woman defied nature to win a contest in New Orleans, and I wasn’t surprised that she won. If she put her mind to it, she could run the country.
Better to think of President Wasserman than what happened with Hugo.
I manage to pull myself together long enough to help her find a book on gardening roses that she hasn’t read yet. She thanks me three times and spends another five minutes telling me about her plans for a spring garden competition before finally heading out. But it goes in one ear and out the other.
When the library is empty again, I glance at the clock. Just a little while longer until closing time.
I press my hands to my cheeks, trying to cool the warmth lingering there ever since Hugo showed up. I’m supposed to be shelving books, but instead I’m standing here like some smitten fool, running over every word he said and trying to make sense of it.
Hugo wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. Could he?
He was teasing me, playing with me the way he always does. That’s just Hugo—sharp-tongued and cocky, with a way of looking at you like he knows all your secrets.
But then I think about the way his voice softened, the way he leaned in so close I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.
Would you do the same for me? For me and Sam?
The question replays in my mind, over and over, until I feel like I might combust. And my answer— yes —feels louder every time I hear it.
It’s been a quiet day, and for that I’m grateful. After everything that’s happened over the past few days, I could use a little quiet. But when I lock up and step into the parking lot, I realize the quiet doesn’t feel as heavy as it did before.
It’s still daylight, and the faint glow of the setting sun makes everything feel warmer, safer. I glance around the lot, half expecting a shadow to move, but there’s nothing.
No one’s here.
And for the first time in days, I’m not looking over my shoulder every two seconds. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that I already know I’m coming back to The Lethal Legacy later tonight.
The drive home is quiet, except for the steady hum of the car engine and the sound of my own thoughts, which are louder than ever.
Hugo said he wanted me to come to the shop. He didn’t say it outright—Hugo never says anything outright—but it was there in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at me. He expects me to show up.
But for what, exactly?
A show.
I bite my lip, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I replay the conversation in my head. As much as I want to believe he was joking, I can’t shake the feeling that he was testing me.
Like he wanted to see how far I’d go. But how far do I want to go?
I pull into my driveway, my heart racing as I turn off the engine and sit for a moment, staring at the house. The shower is calling me—I can already feel the tension melting away at the thought of hot water and steam. But it’s not just the stress of the day I want to wash away.
It’s the nerves.
Because as much as I want to deny it, I already know I’m going to the shop.
The shower is scalding, but I let it run hot, scrubbing at my skin like I can somehow wash away the memory of Hugo’s voice. But it’s no use. His words are burned into my brain, and the longer I stand here, the more my nerves twist into something else.
It was just teasing. Just Hugo being Hugo.
But what if it wasn’t? What if he meant it? What if he’s at the shop right now, waiting for me?
The thought makes my stomach flip, dread swirling in my chest, my head.
I need an excuse. Something to explain why I’m there if he was just joking, if none of this is real. Something to make it seem like I’m not showing up to give him—or them—what he asked for. Something to make it easier to back out if I lose my nerve.
Getting a tattoo.
No. No one would believe I’m there to get a tattoo. Maybe to get my ears pierced, but a tattoo? Absolutely not. There’s no way?—
To prevent being trafficked. Marked skin is an identifier, and traffickers hate those.
The idea pops into my head out of nowhere, and I laugh, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. It’s ridiculous, but it’s the kind of thing Hugo would appreciate. He’d laugh too, probably make some smart comment about my “alabaster unmarked skin.”
It’s perfect.
If I show up and decide not to go through with…whatever this is, I can just play it off as a joke. I’ll tell them I was inspired by Crow and his hammer tattoo and figured I’d beat the bad guys to the punch.
Last night with Trick…? That was induced by the trauma of the attack, nothing more. It didn’t mean anything, right? Just a one-off thing from me not being in my right mind. That’s all.
It’s not exactly believable, but it’s enough to keep me from looking desperate. And maybe it’ll give me the courage I need to actually walk through the door.
I stand in front of my closet, a towel wrapped around me, as I stare at the options in front of me.
Jeans and a T-shirt? Too casual. A sundress? That’ll work. By the time I’m dressed, my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is a bad idea.
I should stay home, curl up on the couch with a book, and pretend none of this ever happened. I should stop writing about them, stop thinking about them, stop wanting them.
But I know I won’t. Because the truth is, I don’t just want them. I want them to want me. And tonight, I’m going to find out if they do.
The drive to The Lethal Legacy feels longer than it should, even though it’s barely ten minutes from my house. Every stoplight feels like a test, every turn like a chance to change my mind. The closer I get, the more it feels further away.
But I don’t turn back.
When I pull into the lot, the sight of the shop makes my chest tighten. The lights are still on, casting their own glow into the fading twilight. A faint outline of movement says someone is inside.
It’s not too late to leave. I could turn the car around, go home, and pretend this never happened.
But I don’t.
I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and step out of the car, my legs trembling as I make my way to the door. I don’t know what I’m walking into. But I know I can’t stay away.