Other than her homework, Ollie was carryingCaptain Bloodby Rafael Sabatini, a broken-spined paperback that she’d dug out of her dad’s bookshelves. She mostly liked it. Peter Blood outsmarted everyone, which was a feature she liked in heroes, although she wished Peter were a girl, or the villain were a girl, orsomeonein the book besides his boat and his girlfriend (both named Arabella) were a girl. But at least the book had romance and high-seas adventures and otherabsolutely not Evansburgthings. Ollie liked that. Reading it meant going to a new place where she wasn’t Olivia Adler at all.
Ollie braked her bike. The ground by the road was carpeted with scarlet leaves; sugar maples start losing their leaves before other trees. Ollie kept a running list in her head of sugar maples in Evansburg that didn’t belong to anyone. When the sap ran, she and her mom would—
Nope. No, they wouldn’t. They could buy maple syrup.
The road that ran beside the swimming hole looked like any other stretch of road. A person just driving by wouldn’t know the swimming hole was there. But, if you knew just where to look, you’d see a skinny dirt trail that went from the road to the water. Ollie walked her bikedown the trail. The trees seemed to close in around her. Above was a white-railed bridge. Below, the creek paused in its trip down the mountain. It spread out, grew deep and quiet enough for swimming. There was a cliff for jumping and plenty of hiding places for one girl and her book. Ollie hurried. She was eager to go and read by the water and be alone.
The trees ended suddenly, and Ollie was standing on the bank of a cheerful brown swimming hole.
But, to her surprise, someone was already there.
A slender woman, wearing jeans and flannel, stood at the edge of the water.
The woman was sobbing.
Maybe Ollie’s foot scuffed a rock, because the woman jumped and whirled around. Ollie gulped. The woman was pretty, with amber-honey hair. But she had circles under her eyes like purple thumbprints. Streaks of mascara had run down her face, like she’d been crying for a while.
“Hello,” the woman said, trying to smile. “You surprised me.” Her white-knuckled hands gripped a small, dark thing.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ollie said cautiously.
Why are you crying?she wanted to ask. But it seemed impolite to ask that question of a grown-up, even if her face was streaked with the runoff from her tears.
The woman didn’t reply; she darted a glance to the rocky path by the creek, then back to the water. Like she was looking out for something. Or someone.
Ollie felt a chill creep down her spine. She said, “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” The woman tried to smile again. Fail. The wind rustled the leaves. Ollie glanced behind her. Nothing.
“I’m fine,” said the woman. She turned the dark thing over in her hands. Then she said, in a rush, “I just have to get rid of this. Put it in the water. And then—” The woman broke off.
Then? What then?The woman held the thing out over the water. Ollie saw that it was a small black book, the size of her spread-out hand.
Her reaction was pure reflex. “You can’t throw away a book!” Ollie let go of her bike and jumped forward. Part of her wondered,Why would you come here to throw a book in the creek? You can donate a book.There were donation boxes all over Evansburg.
“I have to!” snapped the woman, bringing Ollie up short. The woman went on, half to herself, “That’s the bargain. Make the arrangements. Then give the book to the water.” She gave Ollie a pleading look. “I don’t have a choice, you see.”
Ollie tried to drag the conversation out of crazy town.“You can donate a book if you don’t want it,” she said firmly. “Or—or give it to someone. Don’t just throw it in the creek.”
“Ihaveto,” said the woman again.
“Have to drop a book in the creek?”
“Before tomorrow,” said the woman. Almost to herself, she whispered, “Tomorrow’s the day.”
Ollie was nearly within arm’s reach now. The woman smelled sour—frightened. Ollie, completely bewildered, decided to ignore the stranger elements of the conversation. Later, she would wish she hadn’t. “If you don’t want that book, I’ll take it,” said Ollie. “I like books.”
The woman shook her head. “He said water. Upstream. Where Lethe Creek runs out of the mountain. I’m here. I’mdoingit!” She shrieked the last sentence as though someone besides Ollie were listening. Ollie had to stop herself from looking behind her again.
“Why?” she asked. Little mouse feet crept up her spine.
“Who knows?” the woman whispered. “Just his game, maybe. He enjoys what he does, you know, and that is why he’s always smiling—” She smiled too, a joyless pumpkin-head grin.
Ollie nearly yelped. But instead, her hand darted up and she snatched the book. It felt fragile under her fingers, gritty with dust. Surprised at her own daring, Ollie hurriedly backed up.
The woman’s face turned red. “Give that back!” A glob of spit hit Ollie in the cheek.
“I don’t think so,” said Ollie. “You don’t want it anyway.” She was backing toward her bike, half expecting the woman to fling herself forward.
