He breaks off, but it takes me a second to realize why. His dark eyes are in my corner, narrowed into slits. Mr. Zhang seems to notice me at the same moment.
“Y-You can go home today,” he stammers, shaking his head. “We’re closed. She’s leaving,” he insists to the other man. “She’s leaving.”
Rafe doesn’t buy the lie. With a decisive snap! he closes the volume of Emily Dickinson. “Right on cue,” he grates through clenched teeth. “The nosy little bunny rabbit.”
Mr. Zhang frowns. “She works here.”
Rafe cocks his head, stroking his chin. “Does she now?” He brandishes my book, unconcerned by the damage he’s done. “Is that true, bunny?”
I say nothing.
Eyeing the blood he’s smeared over the cover, I have the strangest thought. I wish I’d brought his lighter with me. One flick, and he’d go up in flames along with the defaced pages. A part of me flinches at the viciousness. Murder a man over a stupid book? Yes.
Because he picks his way through the carnage of the bookstore with a calm that betrays an unsettling familiarity with violence. More than that, he’s relishing this moment and savoring the fear and every glimmering bit of broken glass.
What had he called me? Rabbit.
Well, he’s a dog too damn cocky to care what carnage he may cause whenever he gnashes his teeth. That power is all he has.
It’s all he craves.
I’ve spent my entire life learning how to navigate people like him, but I break the most important rule. I react.
“Why are you here?” I hear myself croak.
Shock distorts his features, disrupting the hard, chiseled expression. He almost appears human for five seconds. “Well, well, well,” he murmurs. “You do work here. Maybe you’re not a reporter after all?” But it’s all an act. He saw my pen when he went through my bag. I know he did.
That’s why he’s here.
“Still, you’ve been behind on payments, old man,” he says to Mr. Zhang. “It’s time you caught up.” Smirking in that cold, callous way, he turns and approaches the door, heedless of the crowd gaping beyond it. The lack of police presence makes me question if anyone even called them. Deep down, I know the answer. They haven’t, and they won’t.
“Midnight, Zhang,” Rafe tosses over his shoulder along with an address. “Meet me there with the money. Or close up shop. Permanently.”
I stare after him for what feels like an eternity before a series of thuds makes me turn to Mr. Zhang. He’s clinging to a nearby bookshelf, knocking over the few remaining books from the display, his eyes bloodshot.
My chest tightens. I feel like I should turn away. Leave. Something about his reaction is so personal—private. I can’t imagine what it’s like to witness years of hard work reduced to scattered paper and broken glass.
“Are you all right…?” I start to approach him, but he shrugs off the hand I place on his shoulder.
“Go home!” He makes it sound so easy, but I don’t even know what “home” is anymore.
My apartment is a cage where I’m lucky to find four hours of sleep, especially now. It feels like the moment I step foot over the threshold, everything I’ve been keeping in will spill out into the open.
He’ll know.
He’ll come.
He’ll rage.
You disobeyed me, Hannah.
You failed, Hannah.
You need me, Hannah.
Lately, the Paper Crane, with its bright yellow walls and soothing scents of crisp paper, feels like the only place that comes close to deserving that term—Home.
But in one cruel moment, some sadistic bastard has waltzed right in and demolished any remaining peace I may have felt.
“This is my fault,” I blurt out, setting the guidebook down on a crooked shelf. “Let me help you. How much money do you need?”
“Too much.” He shakes his head. “The store is closed.”
“How much?” I press. I have a few hundred in savings—though I doubt it would even be enough to cover the cost of the window repair, not to mention the damaged inventory.
But I’m not naïve. This won’t end, even if he does pay. The man, who terrorized two women in a club and pilfered a copy of Emily Dickinson, doesn’t strike me as the type to cease his demands for money, even if the Paper Crane does close.
Men like that don’t read. They don’t appreciate art. They steal and destroy, and he’ll probably toss that book in the first trash can he comes across. This has everything to do with power.
“Maybe we should call the police?” I suggest. Then I realize how stupid I sound, and I snatch my phone from my pocket, swiping my thumb at the screen. “What am I even saying? I’m calling them now—”
“No!” Mr. Zhang worriedly eyes the broken window and the now dispersing crowd. “No police. That will just make this worse,” he insists. “It’s fine.”
“Then at least tell me how much money you need.” I don’t know why I’m pushing this so hard. At worst, I’ll have to find a new job, and that should be where my concern ends. I shouldn’t feel so damn invested. So…angry.
But I am.
“He only did this because of me.” Fury prickles in my bones like electricity, causing my fingers to tremble. It’s so bad that I have to return my phone to my pocket or risk dropping it.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Zhang continues to insist. “Don’t worry—”
“A thousand?” I blurt out, taking a stab in the dark. “Five thousand?”
Mr. Zhang’s eyes lower to the floor, and he shakes his head. My heart sinks.
“Double?” I have a feeling that it might even be more than that. How anyone could expect a single elderly man running a middling bookshop to come up with that sum of money in less than twenty-four hours is beyond me.
Then again, that’s probably the point. To taunt and tease and set down impossible ultimatums, knowing they don’t have a hope of being fulfilled.
That’s how monsters get their way.
“Go, go!” Mr. Zhang commands, tugging at my arm. “Go now! Take the rest of the day off.”
I allow him to shove me gently through the front door. I even manage to wave goodbye before heading back the way I’d come, but I can’t forget what I’ve seen. Or him.
The memory of those dark, mocking eyes detracts from what is otherwise a beautiful day with a clear blue sky speckled by only a few clouds.
The sunlight is gossamer-thin, like a veil thrown over a nightmare. I keep seeing him everywhere. He’s every man with broad shoulders passing by. Every discreet figure sporting a head of black hair or fathomless ebony eyes.
My paranoia grows with every step I take. Is he the figure leaning near the opening to an alley up ahead? Or the person across from me, crossing the street?
Or are people like him just roaches who scatter in the face of light…
“Watch out!” An unseen hand cinches my forearm and yanks me backward. I rock on my heels and glance down. I was only inches from stepping off the curb into the moving traffic.
“What were you daydreaming about, Hannah?” I turn to find my rescuer beaming, her black hair falling over the straps of her bright orange sundress.