RIANNE
The donation box hits the floor with enough force to make the entire reference desk shudder and a sharp pain lances up my spine.
Twenty-three pounds of a dead person’s books, according to the estate lawyer’s inventory. I stumble backward, my hip catching the desk corner hard enough to guarantee a bruise, and my coffee mug, the one shaped like a cat that says “I Do What I Want,” tips over. Cold coffee spreads across three weeks of overdue notices.
“Perfect.” I grab tissues from the box on the counter, dabbing at the mess while coffee drips onto my shoes. “Just perfect.”
From his throne on the circulation desk, Mister Poofypants the Third opens one yellow eye, watches me frantically mopping coffee with increasingly soggy tissues, yawns to display his complete indifference to my struggles, and returns to his nap. His belly rises and falls in the satisfied rhythm of a cat who has never experienced rejection or betrayal.
“Your sympathy is overwhelming.” I toss the wet tissues in the trash, missing entirely. They hit the floor with a splat. “Really. I’m touched.”
My phone buzzes against the desk, vibrating its way toward the coffee puddle. I snatch it up just in time. Martin. Again. The seventh text today, each one more pathetic than the last. I delete without reading—I learned my lesson about reading them after the third one made me cry into my Sweet Berry Sunset.
“Oh, now you want to talk?” I shove the phone in my back pocket. “Where was this communication when you were with CrossFit Karen in our bed?”
Mister Poofypants the Third stretches one paw luxuriously, knocking my stapler off the desk. It hits the floor with a crack that sounds final. I pick it up. Broken clean in half, the spring shooting across the room to disappear under Fiction A-D.
“Fair point. I should stop talking about him.” I set both halves of the stapler on the desk like the world’s saddest modern art installation.
My gaze falls on the “New Arrivals” display I’d spent two hours arranging yesterday. Every book is perfectly aligned, spines out, with little hand-written recommendation cards tucked inside. A small point of pride in the chaos. Even with everything falling apart, I could still do this. I could still make order out of stories.
The Wickham Public Library is closed for the holidays—has been since noon, and will be until January 2nd. I’m supposed to be in Aspen right now, sipping overpriced hot chocolate while Martin attempts to ski and mostly fails.
Instead, I’m cataloguing dead people’s book donations, drinking wine that tastes like someone dissolved Jolly Ranchers in rubbing alcohol, and having conversations with a cat who barely tolerates my existence.
The wine leaves a coating on my teeth, the bitter taste of regret. I take another swig anyway, straight from the bottle now because I’ve given up on the pretense of the coffee mug.
“At least you’re honest about our relationship,” I say to the cat, offering him a cheese ball from the bag I found in the break room. The bag crinkles as I dig around for an intact one. They expired in October but smell fine. He sniffs it with the disdain of a food critic at a truck stop, then turns away, his tail swishing dismissively across my keyboard.
“Oh, excuse me, Your Majesty. I forgot you only eat that fancy salmon pâté that costs more than my lunch.”
I’ve told everyone I’m still going to Colorado. Posted an old photo on Instagram this morning—last year’s trip, Martin carefully cropped out but his shadow still visible on the snow if you know where to look. Added some nonsense about “solo self-care vacation” that got thirty-seven hearts and twelve comments about how brave I am.
Brave. Right. So brave I’m hiding in a library with a cat and gas station wine.
I drag the Blackwood box to my processing area near the reference desk. Perfect spot—close to the break room for wine refills, the bathroom for when the wine hits, and Mister Poofypants’ favorite radiator that clanks like a ghost with anger issues.
“Edgar Blackwood,” I say to the cat, who has decided to investigate the box by sitting directly on top of it. “Remember him? Came in every Monday, always smelled like mothballs and conspiracy theories? Had that weird twitch when anyone mentioned the government?”
The cat settles more firmly on the box. Judging me.
“Of course. Why would you sit anywhere else?” I gently nudge him aside and start pulling books from the box. The first three come out stuck together with something that might be honey or might be something worse. “‘Essential Oils for Pet Communication.’” I wave it at the cat. “Think that would work on you?”
Mister Poofypants looks at me with eyes that clearly communicate: bring food, provide worship, expect nothing in return.
“‘The Hidden Messages in Bathroom Grout.’” I set it in the maybe pile, taking another swig of wine. The room tilts slightly when I lean forward. “Martha’s going to love that for the book sale.” Another book, this one missing its cover entirely. “‘Crystal Healing for Your Houseplants.’ That’s definitely going to?—”
My hand stops. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in what looks like an old silk scarf, is something that is definitely not a book—well, it’s book-shaped. But the binding looks wrong—like someone tried to make leather out of oil slicks and nightmares. The surface shifts between blue and silver and colors that don’t have names, colors that make my eyes water just trying to focus on them.
I lean closer, and the wine bottle slips from my other hand, hitting the desk with a thunk that sends coffee-soaked papers sliding.
Mister Poofypants the Third goes rigid. His back arches like a Halloween decoration, every hair standing on end. His pupils dilate to black circles despite the bright fluorescent lighting, and he backs away from the box, knocking pens and paper clips to the floor in a cascade of office supplies.
“What’s wrong, Poof?” My voice sounds thin in the sudden silence.
The cat stares at the maybe-book with the kind of focus he usually reserves for the red laser dot or that one moth that got in last summer and traumatized us all with its death throes against the window.
The symbols on the cover hurt to look at directly. They writhe and shift like living things, like someone carved words into flesh and the flesh is trying to heal. My stomach turns, and I can’t tell if it’s the wine or the wrongness of the thing in my hands.
