Make Me Bad(11)

It really has been a while since I’ve been here. Like I said, the firm has been keeping me busy, but I also avoid this place because it carries a lot of memories I’d rather not dwell on, like Saturdays with my mom, especially. I walk up the imposing staircase, past the statue of my great-great-great-grandfather cast in bronze, and then pull open the heavy door. Inside, there’s a security guard perched at an ancient oak desk. When I ask him about a volunteer station, he looks at me like I’m from a different planet. Right. I’ll find it myself.

Like most buildings around Clifton Cove, the library is ridiculously over the top for the function it serves. This isn’t your standard one-story brick building with mismatched furniture and stained carpet from the 80s. The floors are marble. The walls are paneled and finished with crown molding. The ceilings stretch to heights usually reserved for churches, and the artwork hanging on the walls is no doubt on loan from various museums around the country.

The bronze guy outside—the original Mr. Rosenberg—endowed the city with the funds and oversaw the design and build of the library. Of all the buildings in the city that carry my last name, this one is my favorite.

I walk past the quiet study rooms, past two symmetrical staircases with wrought iron rails, past the magazines and periodicals. I’m looking around for some kind of help desk when a short guy wearing khaki pants and a blue gingham button-down walks right up to me like he’s on a mission. Based on the fact that he’s approaching me at all, I assume he’s an employee who’s seen me ambling around, obviously looking lost.

“Could you point me in the direction of—”

“Oh my god. Are you here for Madison?”

“What?”

He straightens his shoulders and shakes his head, affecting a gentler tone when he continues, “I just mean…after what happened…” His brows furrow in confusion behind his thick black-framed glasses. “Never mind, forget I said anything.” His hand shoots out. “I’m Eli.”

I accept his handshake. “Ben—”

“Rosenberg. Yes, I know.” He drops my hand and steps back, frowning. “Are you here to check out library books? Because I looked and you don’t even have a library card.”

“Uhh…”

I look around, hoping to find some clues as to who this person is and why he seems to know so much about me. Also, why did he bring up Madison?

“And sure,” he continues, pointing behind me, “that’s your great-grandfather’s statue out there, so technically all these books probably belong to you anyway, but still—”

“Eli! Ahem, Eli!”

I turn to see a short elderly woman holding a book outstretched toward the guy talking my ear off.

“Eli,” she says, tone stern, chin raised. “This book has a tear right down the first page. I think it’s only fair that I get to keep it—for free.”

I turn back in time to see Eli roll his eyes. “That’s the fifth book this month. Mrs. Taylor, if you keep tearing up our books, we’re going to cut up your library card.”

She harrumphs and then turns away, nose in the air.

Eli shakes his head in distaste. “Criminals…”

What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Actually, I’m just looking for the volunteer desk,” I offer, hoping to end this odd exchange as soon as possible.

Eli glances back at me, brows suddenly perked up with interest. “Volunteer desk, huh? Well why didn’t you say so? It’s downstairs, right by the children’s section. You can’t miss it.”

I narrow my eyes in speculation. He looks entirely too pleased to be sending me downstairs, but I shake off the feeling. Maybe they’re just really in need of volunteers.

I thank him and head in the direction he’s pointing, but I don’t make it very far before I remember what he said. I frown as I try to recall his exact words. Are you here for Madison?

“Hey wait,” I call out to him as I turn around. “You know Madison?”

He smirks. “You could say that.”

Then, before I can ask anything more, he turns and walks away.

I’m thinking over what his cryptic words could possibly mean as I walk down the stairs and into the area of the library that’s been designed with children in mind. There are colorful art installations hanging from ceilings, rows of computers, a section of bean bags and tiny chairs, and stacks upon stacks of books. Oversized stuffed animals sit on top of the shelves, and whereas the areas upstairs were quiet, down here, the atmosphere is alive and happy. A toddler runs right into my path and I have to stop on a dime to keep from toppling him over. His mom runs after him and shouts a quick thank you to me before she catches up and whisks him off the ground into her arms. He laughs like it’s the funniest game he’s ever played, and I’m smiling like an idiot before I realize and wipe it off.

I scan the area and spot a sign hanging from the ceiling that points me in the direction of the help desk. Surely someone there will be able to tell me where the hell I’m supposed to be. Of course, no one is currently manning it. There’s a small bell sitting near the edge, so I ding it once and wait, hands in my pockets, eyes scanning the room.

After a few moments, I realize with the noise level down here, it’d probably be hard for someone to hear the bell, so I try again, dinging it twice this time.