The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(63)

A man stepped in, silhouetted by the corridor light. Peeking through the books, she could make out only his shape, not his features.

“Anyone in here?” he called out, holding the door. “We got a 911 call.”

Yeah, Evie thought. I’ll bet you did.

“Evelyn Gallagher?” the man called out. “Are you in here?”

She looked around wildly. There was a metal cart just behind them, its three shelves loaded with books. The floors were carpeted. But if the wheels squeaked . . .

“Evelyn?” the man said. He let go of the door and it closed behind him with a firm clang, cutting off the light from the corridor. He walked to the checkout desk and glanced behind it.

She wondered why he wasn’t turning on the lights.

Because then you’ll see he’s dressed as a UPS man, not as a cop.

But that wouldn’t last. When he didn’t see them, he’d abandon the act.

She looked at Dash and signed, Don’t move! Then she got on her hands and knees and crawled toward the cart.

“Evelyn?” the man called out again. “The dispatcher said we could find you here. Come on out, ma’am, you’re safe now.”

She reached under the cart and felt for the wheels. They were aligned in the wrong direction. Of course. She rotated them a hundred and eighty degrees. The cart was heavy, and she grimaced with the effort of moving the wheels without making noise.

“It’s really all right, ma’am. You can come out.”

For a second, she felt herself wanting to believe him. The alternative was too terrifying.

No. That is never going to happen to you again. Never.

She put her hands low on the end of the cart, just above the wheels. She pushed. It didn’t move.

She gritted her teeth and pushed again, harder. Again she couldn’t budge it. What was wrong? With all those books, it was heavy, but not that heavy.

She saw Dash crawling toward her. She waved for him to go back, but he ignored her. He reached under the cart and started doing something to the wheels. She wanted to tell him she had already aligned them, that he should stay where no one could see him—

The wheels, she realized. Did they have some kind of locks?

She reached under, felt around, and found the mechanism instantly. A simple lever. She pulled one, then the second. She looked up. Dash was looking at her. He signed, Safety locks. Like on Marvin’s tools.

She nodded frantically. Okay. Go back.

He crawled away, but toward the tables, not behind the shelf. She waved frantically, but he couldn’t see her—

The lights came on. She froze, feeling suddenly, horribly exposed. From behind the cart, she couldn’t see the man. But did that mean he couldn’t see her?

She was ten feet from the stairs. She’d wanted to move the cart closer, but with the lights on, she didn’t dare.

She looked to her right. Dash was under one of the wooden study tables. He was doing something to one of the legs. She couldn’t tell what. Please, God, please don’t make a noise . . .

She strained to listen. She could just make out footfalls, soft on the carpet below. He was moving toward the back of the first-floor space. Of course. Past every shelf, then a return on the opposite side. And when the first-floor search proved fruitless, he’d move to the second floor.

And find them.

The sound of footsteps faded. She wished he would call out again so she could have an idea of his position. But he must have recognized the 911 gambit had failed.

She glanced at Dash again. But he was ignoring her, intent on the underside of the table.

Seconds passed. Crouched behind the book cart, she could see the landing at the top of the stairs, but nothing below it.

Over the pounding of her heart, she heard footsteps again. Closer. Louder.

The cadence changed. She realized she could now hear not just the footsteps, but the soft rustle of the material of his clothes.

He was coming up the stairs. And he was close. Any second, and he would see them.





chapter

forty-seven





LIVIA


Carl and Livia sat on the floor, eating the takeout Larison had brought them. “The angel of death,” Carl said. “Moonlighting as DoorDash delivery. Who’da thunk it?”

Livia didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure about the sleeping arrangements. Would Alondra be comfortable with Larison? Maybe Larison and Carl should have taken the other room. Or was she just telling herself that as an excuse, because she was afraid of what staying with Carl might mean? As usual with him, she was overthinking everything.

But also as usual, her silence didn’t dissuade Carl. If anything, it encouraged him. “I hope the room’s okay,” he said, looking around. “I got the last one with two queen beds for Larison and Diaz. All they had left was these honeymoon-suite types, with the king beds and water views and hot tubs. I guess we’ll just have to try to make the best of it.”

Again, she didn’t answer.

He said, “I’m kidding, they did have some with two queens, but none of those faced the water. But you know the floor’s okay by me, if you’d prefer.”

She looked down. She didn’t know what she preferred. They’d shared a bed before—literally as well as otherwise—and she’d gotten used to having him next to her throughout the night. She even . . . liked it. Or wanted to. She wished she could explain to him that whenever she caught herself feeling happy, it terrified her. The lesson seared into her psyche being that she could never trust anything good. That it would all be ripped away from her. And with Carl . . . there were moments when she’d never been happier. But the terror was correspondingly bad.