5. Artemis #2
This was the version of me people could tolerate. Efficient. Quiet. Useful. No opinions. No needs. Just results.
I started alphabetizing and indexing my emotional state the way I always did when my brain began to work against me.
A: Anxiety, ignore.
C: Creativity, stalled.
L: Loneliness, deal with later.
M: Mental stability, undefined.
That was healthy. Definitely.
My therapist would have had thoughts—so would my parents. Luckily for me, I no longer spoke to any of them. The latter estrangement was healthy; the former was… not.
I pulled up the Dewey code on the old desktop, the fans rattling like the computer was holding on for dear life, then headed down the aisle.
I started with the places that title could have ended up if someone saw the Spanish and panicked. Adjacent classifications. “Foreign language” catchalls. The well-meaning mistakes that caused permanent damage.
“Okay, Recopilación de Linajes de Dragones Notables de este Milenio,” I whispered to myself. “Should be right between… ah, yes.”
I reached for the shelf and immediately spotted a spine that looked promising: Compendio de dragones notables, by Brenardo León Mullijano.
My heart rate kicked up as I opened it.
I stared at the extremely detailed instruction manual for dragon subclasses from Dungeons & Dragons, complete with charts—many charts.
“Oh my god!” I snapped it shut and—without thinking—yeeted it down the aisle.
It made a soft thunk, and I gasped, slapping both hands over my mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to no one, sprinting to rescue it like I’d just thrown a baby. “You deserved better.”
I retrieved it, checked for damage (none, thank the gods of literacy), and placed it delicately back on its shelf.
A little too delicately. I may have patted it. Comforted it. Apologized again.
Then I kept hunting.
Five minutes later, I had already pulled:
Grandes Dragones de Galicia
Atlas Ilustrado de Seres Mitológicos y También Gallinas
A Treatise on Scaled Nobility, Third Edition: Includes Modern Iguanas
None were what I needed. The correct book remained missing. That only sharpened my focus into something fierce and narrow. I was knee-deep in the oversized volumes when a voice cut sharply through my tunnel-vision.
“Well. Someone’s certainly… busy.”
I jerked like I’d been caught stealing historical artifacts.
The library director stood in the aisle, wearing a button-up shirt covered entirely in cartoon frogs—bright green ones with little crowns, some waving, some holding lollipops. His expression was as serious as if he were delivering a eulogy.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re here.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Yes, Artemis. I manage four branches, not one. I can’t imagine you expect me to be omnipresent.”
This was a typical exchange between us: he said something mildly condescending, and I tried not to bristle visibly.
“I’m reorganizing the section,” I said. “Looking for a misfiled book.”
His eyes widened at the stack of volumes I’d created. “You moved the entire mythological compendium?”
“No. Only the dragon-related entries.”
“Only.”
I resisted the urge to apologize to the universe. His frog shirt blinked at me. (Not literally—emotionally.)
He folded his arms. “You’re very diligent, Artemis. I’ve always said so.”
That was his version of a compliment: stiff and vaguely managerial.
“I do hope this won’t interfere with our outreach goals. We need at least three more social media posts this week. Preferably involving costumes. The algorithm favors costumes.”
I stared at him. “You want me to dress up?”
“As a frog, ideally.”
I closed my eyes. Counted to three. “Right. Of course.”
He nodded, satisfied, then his attention drifted to the books in my arms. “Any progress?”
I hesitated. “Maybe. Potentially. I’ll let you know.”
“In other words: no.”
“In other words: I’m getting there.”
He made a noise somewhere between skepticism and approval, which was his entire emotional range. “If you find any currency-related texts, set them aside for me. My collection is still missing a medieval Flemish trade token.”
“Noted.”
“And remember, we have a frog-themed summer reading kickoff in two weeks.”
“Of course we do.”
He left with the purposeful stride of a man overseeing empires, though one of those empires was decorated exclusively in amphibians.
I exhaled.
I never knew whether interactions like that were meant to motivate or correct me. Historically, it hadn’t mattered. I always worked harder either way.
I turned back to my shelves.
Hyper-focus re-engaged.
The world narrowed again until it was just me, the books, and the faint hum of something in the back of my mind that tightened whenever I thought of him.
Tall stranger. Warm smile. That odd electric awareness in my chest.
I pressed a hand over my sternum, swallowing hard.
“No,” I whispered to myself. “You are not getting distracted by a man today.”
I reached for the next book, then the next. I ducked down to pick up a book I’d accidentally knocked over, and that’s when I saw it—tucked behind a row of medieval cheese-making manuals, of all things—the exact crimson binding I’d been hunting for. Almost like it was hidden there.
Which meant someone had decided it didn’t belong where it could be found.
My heart beat a little faster.
Not because of him. Obviously.
I just really, really liked finding things.
That was all.
Probably.
I cradled the book, heart pounding with triumph so sharp it felt unreal. I did it. Me. Artemis Ripley, professional stew of anxiety and hyperfocus, had solved a mystery before nine in the morning.
Something warm and fizzy bloomed in my chest. Victory. And, annoyingly, the immediate urge to tell him.
I pulled out my phone, into which I’d already programmed his number before I fell asleep the night before, and hesitated for half a second.
Then I called.
“Hello?” His voice came through, deep and hopeful. The second he heard me inhale, he lit up—I could hear it, like sunshine poured through the airwaves.
“It’s me,” I said, suddenly nervous. “Artemis, from the Tarrytown library. I—uh—I found your book.”
There was a sharp, delighted exhale on the other end. “You did?” He sounded like I’d just told him dragons were real. “I knew you would. I knew it.”
Compliments should not feel like live wires. My entire body flushed with heat. Compliments were dangerous. Compliments in that tone were catastrophic.
“I’ll be right there,” he said, and hung up before I could respond.
I stared at the phone.
“Right there?” I murmured. How much time is that? Do I wait for him? Does he live across town?
I was still trying to decide how to proceed like a normal human being when a call came in five minutes after I hung up with Tall, Bilingual, and Inconvenient.
I was still standing in the rare books room, holding the crimson binding like it might evaporate out of spite, when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Unknown number.
“Artemis Ripley,” I said.
A man’s bored, nasal voice responded. “Yeah, I’ve got a delivery for the library. I’m out back.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Delivery,” he repeated. “Books.”
“I wasn’t informed of a delivery today.”
A pause. Paper shuffling. “Says here it’s confirmed.”
“By whom?”
Another pause. “Library.”
That was not helpful.
I glanced toward the hallway. No interns. Of course. No staff. Just the low hum of the climate system and the distinct sensation that I was, once again, the only adult in the building.
“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll verify.”
I hung up and marched down the aisle, the crimson book still tucked under my arm like a prize I did not trust the universe not to steal.
Mr. Foster was in the central stacks, reshelving something with the solemnity of a man restoring constitutional order.
“There’s a delivery outside,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting one.”
He didn’t look up. “Then expect it.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I shifted the book to my other arm. “They say it’s books.”
That got his attention. He glanced at the spine I was holding, then back at me. “Then go receive them.”
“That’s not my job.”
“You know we get donations from private collections regularly. Don’t you want to be the one to sort them?”
I stared at him. He stared back. He won.
I exhaled through my nose. “Fine. If I die in the alley, I’m haunting the frog display first.”
“Please don’t,” he said mildly. “It’s seasonal.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I muttered, which was a sentence I said far too often right before regretting my life choices.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the staff exit, placing the crimson book back in the rare books room before leaving.
The alley smelled like damp cardboard. The ground was slick from the storm, and the brick walls pressed in closer than I liked.
A white van idled near the loading bay, its back doors already open.
The van was one of the tall cargo models—high roof, wide interior—like contractors used to haul ladders and sheetrock.
That was strike one. Everyone with half a brain cell knew white vans were associated with candy, poor judgment, and Dateline specials.
Strike two was the man standing in front of it. He was smiling widely. Too widely. Like his face had been told to perform friendliness but was given no further instructions.
He lifted one hand and waved.
I stopped walking.
This was how every cautionary tale started. Alley. Van. Man with a smile that did not belong in public service.
My brain did a quick inventory.
I was alone. It was early. The library was busy.
I should have turned around. Instead, I thought, But what if the books are really good?
I hated myself.
“You here for the delivery?” I called, keeping my distance.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “Got a big one for you today.”
That phrasing did not help.
I took another step closer anyway, because apparently, I was committed to making poor choices before noon.
I glanced around the van. No boxes visible. No carts. No straps.
Strike three.
My feet, however, did not listen to my brain.