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—”
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