“No problem.” But whatever was happening between us is clearly over. Thad doesn’t look upset or disgusted or anything, but he certainly doesn’t look overcome with passion. He looks kind of confused, truth be told, and I can’t really blame him.
Wanting to make things up to him, and to distract from my weird outburst, I spontaneously rise to my feet. “Oh, I have something for you.” I cross to my bookshelf, beaming as I pull out the book I have in mind for him.
He takes it, still looking perplexed. “Death on the Nile?”
“It was the book you came in for today, but we didn’t have it.” I fold my arms over my chest, realizing too late that it might seem kind of stalkerish that I remember this. “I’m also an Agatha Christie fan, so I thought you might not want to wait to dive in.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Thad holds the book like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Catching my gaze, it’s his turn to look uncomfortable, even a little sheepish. “This is nice of you. I just don’t actually read that much.”
I stare at him, gobsmacked. “But you’re in the library all the time. You go through so many books.” It’s one of the things I like most about him—beyond the obvious physical attraction.
Thad runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Right. I was keeping an eye on you in case Dean made contact, so I’d just pick up something to make it look like I had a reason to be there.” He motions again to the book. “This is really nice, though. I hear she’s good.”
It feels like a punch to the gut. That’s dramatic, I know, but it’s true. All the times I imagined the conversations we’d have about how much we both love reading, and it was all a lie. He’sheard Agatha Christie is good, for goodness’ sake! The bestselling novelist of all time, creator of two of the all-time greatest literary detectives, and he’s never even picked up one of her books. Well, no, he picked them up, all right, he just never actually read them.
And that’s just really the tip of the iceberg, I guess, which is that I have no idea who this person is. I thought after seeing him at the library, knowing what kind of books he read, I could paint a picture of who he was. But it was only just a fantasy, wasn’t it? It’s more than just the fact he doesn’t like to read. He’s been pretending everything about himself from the moment we met, trying to use me—making himself into what he thought I’d want him to be. The books, the long, lingering glances, the chemistryI’vebeen feeling—it was all just an act.
I search for something to say—and am luckily interrupted by the chime of my phone. It takes me a moment to process the sound, to remember what we’ve been waiting for, and then Thad and I make quick eye contact before I pick up the phone, breath catching when I see the name flashing on the screen.
“It’s Dean,” I confirm. “He wants to call me.”
Chapter 10
Thad
Iwatch as Helen bites her lip, remembering its soft plushness. Along with being incredibly unprofessional, kissing her was everything I’ve been imagining since I first saw her in one of her ridiculously oversized sweaters, smiling brightly at me over the counter as I handed over an Agatha Christie novel. It was just something that didn’t look too girly or literary I picked at random off the shelf, but she seemed so enthusiastic about it that I thought it might come in handy as a conversation piece down the line. So I waited the appropriate number of days—how long did it take to read a book, anyway, two or three days?—and went back for another Christie novel, then another, then another.
Except for a few cursory pages when I needed to pretend to be engrossed in my reading, like when I followed her to dinner with her two friends, I’ve never actually read any of the books. Believe me, I do enough reading in my line of work—public records, paper trails, social media pages of whoever I’m following—that reading for fun doesn’t sound particularly appealing to do more of when I’m trying to unwind. I like the classic movie channel with the old film noirs, which you can watch in basically any run-down motel—a real perk in my line of work. Guys in trench coats and fedoras, knockout dames who don’t take shit from anyone, cool one-liners, and bad guys who aren’t all bad and good guys who aren’t all good.
But Helen looked so crestfallen when I admitted the truth that I almost wish I had read at least one of the books. Which is stupid, because I know she’s just playing a game to distract me from finding Dean—only, what the hell kind of game is it? I assumed with the whole wine-spilling trick that she was going to seduce me. It isn’t normally the type of thing I let myself fall for—not anymore—but apparently I have an untapped thing for the whole sexy-librarian schtick. The combo of the shy smiles and blushes with those sultry lips and that knockout body that’s all boobs and ass is potent stuff. I wasn’t going to let myself actually sleep with her, but I didn’t see any harm in fooling around. I figured she was the one calling the shots, so it wasn’t taking advantage.
But for someone who’s trying to play the femme fatale and seduce me into a stupor, the giggling was a weird move. Maybe it was meant to confuse me? If that’s the case, it worked like a charm. Still, as a method to make me succumb to her womanly wiles, it was an odd choice. The giggling didn’t seem forced, either—if anything, it read like she couldn’t quite get control of herself. Maybe she hasn’t really done this kind of thing before. I find that hard to believe with all the hip swaying and lip biting and the whole sleeve-slipping-down-the-shoulder thing, but it’s possible she’s new at this kind of game.
The thought makes me feel unexpectedly tender toward her, like I want to give her completely unsolicited and nosy advice to stay away from this whole scene. Find some nice, boring accountant to marry and let Dean fend for himself.
Then came the actual text from Dean, and any thoughts of warning Helen to stay out of it fled. Actual contact from Dean, the guy who has proven so unexpectedly elusive he is nicknamed “The Ghost” among me and my contacts. And he wants to call Helen.
The phone starts ringing a few moments after the text chimed, and for a moment, both Helen and I just stare at it. She starts to answer but I catch her arm. “Okay. Here’s what you’re gonna do. Answer it, try to sound like you just want to have a normal catch-up conversation, try to work in something about where he is now. Don’t let him know I’m here with you.”
Helen stares at me wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights terror on her face. “I’m not good at lying.”
Sure. I do my best to refrain from giving her a skeptical look. “You’ll be fine.”
Taking in a bracing breath, Helen answers the phone. “Dean, hey.” She listens for a moment, brow furrowing. “Yeah, okay.” She covers the receiver, doing an exaggerated stage whisper. “He wants me to put him on speaker.”
That’s…odd. Something uneasy prickles in my gut. “Okay…”
She does so, setting the phone down on the counter. “You’re on speaker, Dean.”
Dean’s voice comes over the speaker, a little crackly, like maybe he has bad reception or is calling from a pay phone. “Whoever’s there with my sister, I wanna talk to you.”
I shoot Helen a sharp, accusing look. I can’t believe I fell for her act for even a second. “You warned him.”
Helen looks genuinely flabbergasted, though I no longer give my perception of her that much weight. She’s a better actress than I anticipated. “How could I have? All I said to him was ‘Dean, hey.’”
Fair point. And I had the phone while she changed, and the rest of the time we were together, so I don’t quite know how she managed it, but I’m sure she did somehow. I don’t know how I keep falling for this bullshit, but I clearly need to stop being so trusting.
“Helen didn’t tip me off, asshole. I’m just not an idiot. When my sister who never texts me wants to get in contact, I can put two and two together.”
