Not until the musical ping of my cell phone accepting an incoming message cuts through the air.
You must have gone to bed early, Branden wrote. Text me when you wake up. I know you work today. I miss your smile.
A sigh escapes me as I reply—I’m awake.
Have a good day, he responds not even a second later.
I look up, eyeing my door. One of my first installations to this place when I moved in was a series of locks in addition to the deadbolt the door came with—four of them, all in a row.
Two sliding chains.
Two exterior deadbolts.
I undo them one by one and grab my bag before slipping out. They won’t be enough—already, they haven’t stopped their intended deterrent from getting in.
They never do.
Chapter Three
Mr. Zhang is the nicest boss I’ve ever worked for. Admittedly, he’s the only boss I’ve worked for, but I wouldn’t trade him for any other. A kind, elderly man who immigrated to the US back in the 80s, he’s a true bibliophile with a killer sense of humor to boot.
And he’s been the most welcoming fixture since I moved to this neighborhood, letting me dive into the depths of his shop unrestrained. After barely a month of working for him, I’m already in love with every inch of the dusty old space.
In his world, Shakespeare shares a shelf with a series of adult-themed comics. Bronte and fashion magazines occupy the same vicinity, and books of poetry are sprinkled throughout the contemporary literature section like Easter eggs. Far too often, someone’s innocent search for a book on the history of the San Francisco area brings him or her to a section also containing volumes of the Kama Sutra.
In a nutshell, it’s paradise.
But paradise doesn’t attract many customers these days. I don’t have to be an accountant to know the shop is firmly in the red, and that Mr. Zhang continues to spend as though it isn’t. The lack of sales contributes to a growing phenomenon I’ve noticed ever since I started working here. Some days, I’ll come in to find an envelope wedged within the doorway. Mr. Zhang never tells me what they contain, though, with the arrival of each one, he closes up the shop a little earlier than usual.
After last night, I think I have a grimmer picture of what might be happening…
Let’s say his uncle commands a lot of respect, and Rafe thinks he’s hot shit just because he handles business for him.
No. I shake my head to clear it and refocus on the day ahead of me. It’ll be a good one. Safe. Normal. A few hours of work, then Mara’s spoken word, and no thoughts of the man from the club. Or Branden.
Just peace.
Teeth gritted in determination, I set my sights on the direction of the Paper Crane, and I’m only a block down when I hear a loud, musical smash that destroys my hopes in one fell swoop.
My pulse quickens before I even reach the storefront. At first glance, it looks like Mr. Zhang’s fortunes may have changed overnight. A small crowd is gathered around the large window, showcasing our newest arrivals. Only now, half of the glass lies scattered over the pavement.
I can’t seem to stop staring as my brain attempts to process the sight. The jagged edges of the hole create a dangerous landscape around the empty space. Piles of books lie scattered on the pavement, a soft breeze ruffling their pages.
And it finally sinks in. Broken. My footsteps falter as I scan the area for a wayward rock or a baseball bat. Anything that could cause so much damage. Ha! A part of me scoffs. You know what really caused this…
Or who.
“That old fool never learns.” Behind me, an elderly woman mutters under her breath. “You can’t toy with the triad. They always get their money back one way or another…”
My quickening heartbeat surges, the thrum of it swallowing her voice as I keep walking, eventually coming across a poor battered tourist handbook. Its glossy cover, featuring a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, has been marred by a dusty footprint, its shape dented. I stop short, stooping down to snatch the book from the ground. My fingers shake as I dust it off. Mr. Zhang wanted me to display these in the front, convinced they would attract new business.
In a way, he may have been right.
More people litter the sidewalk to gape at the mess than I’ve seen here at any one time other than rush hour. But rather than compliment the front display, they chatter mindlessly, speculating on what might have caused the disaster.
“Somebody pissed the bastard off,” another woman murmurs.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t do more than just break the window…”
I swallow hard, letting their noise fade to a hum as my focus fixates on the charming brick-fronted building that has become my haven. Cautiously, I tuck the guidebook under my arm and approach the shop’s entrance. The emerald green door is swinging awkwardly on its hinges, creating an eerie soundtrack to the scene awaiting me within. A masculine voice reaches my ears as I cross the threshold, but it isn’t laced with Mr. Zhang’s heavy accent.
“You’ve been missing payments,” the man says, his snakelike hiss unsettlingly familiar. “Rather than show your gratitude for that mercy, it looks like you’ve been running your mouth. Mingling with reporters? We’ve let the lapses slide, but no more. I’ve decided that your ‘protection’ fee has doubled, in addition to what you already owe for your little ‘hobby.’ Bring the money to me by midnight. Until then, consider yourself closed.”
“I-I can’t! I don’t know what you’re even talking about. What reporter?” Mr. Zhang argues. He stands on the other side of the showroom floor, which I have to blink repeatedly just to recognize. Books are scattered all over, and entire shelves have been knocked out of the bookcases.
“I know some nosy bitch has been here,” that guttural voice replies. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Mr. Zhang’s wire-rimmed glasses perch crookedly on the edge of his nose, though he does his best to thrust his chin defiantly into the air. “And I will pay what I can. I’ve already told Mr. Shen that I just need more t-time—” He says something else that I can’t understand. Another language.
The man facing him from the other end of the store laughs. “I don’t give a fuck. Things have changed. Consider this a renegotiation of your ‘loan.’”
It takes me only a second to recognize him. The muscular body, clothed in a leather jacket and dark jeans, creates a harsh silhouette, but that deep voice resonates in my skin. The owner of my new dragon-faced lighter.
He’s leaning against a display of journals, holding a book open in the palm of his hand. Even from here, I can tell what it is. Emily Dickinson’s My Letter to the World and Other Poems—the illustrated edition. It just so happens to be the only copy in the entire store—something Mr. Zhang had ordered at my request. My name is even written on a pink sticky note that the man absently rips off.
I’d saved up scraps from my last paycheck to afford it, but this monster has already damaged the precious collection. His fingers paint the pages red—courtesy of the blood dripping from his knuckles. At least now I have a pretty good idea of just what caused the damage to the window.
“Midnight, Mr. Zhang.” He sighs while turning the page he’s on. “I really am sorry it has come to this, but that’s why you should be careful who you associate with—”