I stayed where I was. “I don’t see any books.”
“You won’t from there,” he said pleasantly. “You gotta come look.”
My brain began shouting.This is bad. This is obviously bad. People don’t hide books. People hide bodies.
I should have turned around. I should have gone back inside. I should have told Mr. Foster there was a murder van behind the library and let him and his frog shirt handle it.
Instead, I stood there, frozen between fear and curiosity, staring into the empty van like it might suddenly reveal a stack of first editions if I squinted hard enough.
“What kind of books?” I asked.
“All kinds,” he said. “Old ones. I’m not sure, exactly, I’m just delivering them.”
Fuck.
I edged closer, every step cautious, my muscles tight, my senses sharp. The alley felt quieter now, like the sound had been turned down without my permission. The open doors loomed, tall and blank.
He moved farther inside the van, stepping up and out of sight for a second.
“There,” he said from within. “See.”
I stopped just short of the bumper and stared at the empty space. “There are no books.”
He laughed.
Before I could step back, he was down on the ground with me again, hand coming up and covering my mouth with more strength and speed than his form suggested.
This was bad.
With his grip firm on me, he guided me into the van. My heart slammed hard against my ribs, and I twisted, kicking at empty space, trying to make noise, trying to do anything that felt useful.
The door slammed shut, closing me in the dark space.
My brain, traitorous and loud, supplied one last thought.
This is why you don’t trust a white van. Or any van. Or men who smile too much.
He tied my wrists behind my back with zip ties that bit into my skin and made a soft, final clicking sound I was never going to unhear.
“Hey,” I said. “That’s unnecessary. I was already uncomfortable.”
He ignored me and pushed me down onto a metal folding chair. The cold of the metal seeped through my jeans, and I could practically hear it taunting me:No one cares if you’re comfortable. The man looped another tie around my waist and the chair back.
I tested it immediately.
Nothing moved.
“Okay,” I said, my breath coming in quick, panicked bursts. “This is definitely not abook delivery.”
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his jacket. “I just need to ask you some questions.”
That was not reassuring. That sentence had never once been reassuring in the history of humanity.
“Cool,” I said. “Love questions. Big fan. Maybe start with why you kidnapped a librarian on a Tuesday morning?”
His jaw tightened. “You were looking for a book.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s literally my fucking job.”
