His phone vibrated in his pocket, and the sensation was so unexpected he yelped and reached out blindly to steady himself. Two books tumbled to the floor under his hand. He cursed and bent to pick them up. The first was calledNothing Lasts Forever. He slid it back into place, on a shelf labeled with ‘The Movie Has a Different Title.’ He scanned the rest of the books beneath it. There were a few he recognized, but most were a mystery which, he supposed, was the point.
The second book that had fallen was a beaten-up copy ofHeart of Darkness. Martin hung on to it and made his way back up to the counter. The phone vibrated in his pocket again. There was a text from his brother Brian.
If Jess calls, don’t answer it.
Martin sighed. He wasn’t going to play this game. He typed back a pointed reply, but as it hit its fifth sentence, he reconsidered. Brian had done a lot for him, bringing him to Seacroft and giving him a place to live. Berating him via text message wasn’t appropriate.
The sense of invisibility pressed in on him again. There were less than two hours left in his first shift. He could do this, despite the tight feeling that rippled over his lungs. He had to do this. He flipped openHeart of Darkness. He had read it before during a second-year English class that had cemented for him that he could not be an English major. He’d always liked reading, but he found the rigid format of analysis and critique to be too confining. He’d enjoyedHeart of Darknessthough.
Martin was deep up the Congo River when a loud thump brought him out of his reading with a jolt. It was after six, past closing time. He waited, but there were no more sounds. Just another quirk of an old building then. The heating system where his office had been in the Humanities building had made louder noises in the dead of winter. It had clanged and groaned as it struggled to bring anything like heat to the upper floors of the history department. Martin had eventually learned to ignore it, after the faculty dean had patiently explained that it wasn’t some structural concern and the building wasn’t on the verge of collapse.
He slipped around the edge of the counter, slid the deadbolt shut on the front door, and then flipped the sign in the window to Closed. The ‘Help Wanted’ sign was still propped up on the sill. His hand faltered as he reached for it, and instead he turned back to gather up his stuff and get ready to go.
The next bang was louder, reverberating through the shop’s wooden floors.
“Hello?” The word barely made it out of Martin’s throat.
From somewhere in the back of the store, another book fell.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he grabbed his phone with trembling hands.
It was probably nothing. Too many books stacked up in a precarious pile on a shelf that was finally giving way. A small avalanche because Cassidy couldn’t be bothered to sort books like a normal person. He was an adult, and he was being ridiculous. He steeled himself and went to investigate.
The distinct sound of footsteps had him freezing in place again. Martin’s breath went shallow, and he clutched at the phone. Was it inappropriate to call the police on his first day of work? There was someone in the store, and Martin was very sure he had not seen anyone come in since Cassidy had left.
He moved in between the shelves as his mind raced. What if someone had snuck in? Broken in?
Why would someone sneak in to steal used books?
Martin grabbed a cookbook off a shelf labeled ‘Everything is Better With Salt’ and hefted it, testing the weight. If someone was back there, and that someone was up to no good, Martin could use the book as a weapon.
There was a soft sound of someone humming, and it made the hairs on Martin’s neck prickle. He tripped at the edge of the next shelf.
“Cass, is that you?”
Martin froze with the cookbook half-raised to his shoulder. Every part of him went on alert at the sound of a man’s voice, much closer than he’d expected.
Another book dropped to the ground.
He peeked around a shelf. The first thing his brain registered was white, and it was almost enough to convince him that he was seeing a ghost. His fingers tightened around the cookbook.
A long pale arm reached up and lifted a book off the very top shelf.
It was a man.
He wore faded jeans and a gray T-shirt. His hair was bleached blond. If he was a thief, he was a terrible one, because he flipped through the book, then let it drop to the floor next to what must have been the other ones Martin had already heard fall.
He was a man though, whoever he was. Tall and solid. Not a ghost. Martin lowered the cookbook. Assaulting a customer on his first day would be a bad career move.
“Excuse me,” he said, but it was drowned out as the next book thumped to the floor. Martin hopped back a step, but gathered himself and tried again. “Excuse me. I’m closing up.”
“Sure thing,” the man said as he stretched up on his toes again, reaching for another book. His shirt lifted from the waist of his jeans, and the skin underneath was so pale it enhanced his ghostly appearance.
When Martin didn’t leave, the man glanced over his shoulder, and his face made Martin’s heart stop. He wasn’t a ghost or a thief, but whoever he was, he was handsome. Blue eyes flicked up and down once, like he was trying to decide the kind of threat Martin might pose.
As Martin inhaled to assert himself again, the man turned back to the shelf.
“You—” Martin swallowed hard, willing himself to stand firm. “You’ll have to go.”
