a big deal. “Well, all right, it’s healing nicely. Just don’t overdo it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “You spend a lot of time in libraries. Don’t you ever get bored?”
“Most parents would be happy about that.”
Pop just didn’t get my love for libraries. I likened it to his passion for Fenway Park and the Boston Red Sox, which helped him to understand, a little, but he still had his doubts. Libraries weren’t a necessity for him, because he only read sports magazines and the Boston Globe. I wondered if my draw to libraries had something to do with the magic hidden in them.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll make eggs.”
“But we’re stopping at the café first.” At least that wasn’t a lie.
He turned something over in his head. “Do you need money?”
“No. I still have some of my babysitting money.”
“Well, be home by six for dinner, okay?”
“Sure.” I shut the door.
I listened until he thumped away then I shimmied into my jeans. After layering a couple of tank tops on me, I wormed my feet into my black Converse, threw my wet hair into a ponytail, and did a quick check in the mirror. “Ugh, you’re a mess.” I gave my reflection the stink eye.
Cleo hopped up on the windowsill, startling me. “Crap! You scared me, squeaker.” I rushed over, shut the window, and locked it. As I ran my fingers across her fur, she arched her back. “You have to stay inside, okay? If you’re lucky, Pop will give you some of his eggs.”
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and grabbed money from my dresser. The floorboards tried to rat me out as I sneaked into the bathroom and shoved my toothbrush, paste, and deodorant into the pack.
With my back to the wall, I scooted down the hall and hid my overstuffed backpack from Pop’s view. “Later!” I lifted my umbrella from the stand by the door.
“Stay in a group,” he said from his old worn-out recliner, the morning paper blocking his face.
I wanted to be nice, make up for my lies, but he’d get something was up. It sickened me to be so deceiving. Standing in the hall, I tried to think up the best Gia response for the situation.
“Hello? I’m not five,” I finally said, and then shut the door before he could call me over for a lecture. I glanced back at the door, wanting to go back in and give him a hug. Instead, I zipped up my hoodie and struggled down the steps. The dissolvable stitches pulled angrily at my leg wound with each movement.
Rain drenched the street. I forced the umbrella open and hobbled down Baldwin Place.
The attack on the Park station platform was all over the news. They reported the man was high on drugs. The police were searching for him. But I knew they’d never find him, which made me uneasy to leave the apartment.
The thought of the hound we encountered in the Paris library and the bald freak in the subway haunted me. I’d been jumpy ever since. I swore there were unknown voyeurs hiding behind the darkened windows of the tall buildings crowding the narrow street, and I imagined some sort of evil looming within each hidden courtyard or flower-bedecked fire escape. Now that I could put a name to the horrors my mother hinted at when I was young, I was more anxious than ever.
I sprinted—the best I could with a gimpy leg—to the end of the road, fearful someone or something might jump at me from the shadows. I turned the corner and went straight into the café.
After closing my umbrella at the door, I searched for Arik. He was kicking back in a seat at a table in the middle of the café, and my heart squeezed at the sight of him. I moved toward him, but he shook his head and lifted a cell phone to his ear.
He pretended to talk into the phone as I approached. “Don’t acknowledge me. Act as though we aren’t acquaintances. Take one of the tables against the wall.”
I brushed past him, slid into a chair at the nearest table, and kept my eyes on the window, acutely aware of Arik at the table diagonally to my left. My cell phone vibrated in my front pants pocket. I leaned back, tugged it out, and slid it open. “Hello?”
“It’s Arik. Now listen carefully—”
“How did you get my number?”
“Nick gave it to me when I rang him earlier. He’s on