“Are you supposed to be shelving with AirPods in?” I countered. “Last I checked, Rick frowned upon that.”
Rick, an adult reference librarian, was Hunter’s overzealous and somewhat controlling supervisor—one of them.
“Fine,” he said, “we’re friends. Which means you can’t snitch. Now, what book are you looking for so I can help you find it and get on with my miserable, underpaid, bottom-feeder life as a lowly library serf?”
I bit my bottom lip. “You know, a clerk positiondidjust open in the children’s department. I’d totally put in a good word for you. I’d be on the interview panel, too.”
“There aresomany words that I’m allergic to in what you just said.”
“Pay is better,” I offered. “Closer to the Hideout?”
“Book, Hart.” He gestured to the stacks around us. “You were looking for a book.”
I smirked and dropped my gaze again to the cart. I had a hunch Hunter secretly liked his job. He’d been here for two years now. So long as he got to have his AirPods, he didn’t seemtoomiserable, at least some of the time.
“It’s a book on… a myth,” I muttered as I scanned his collection of nonfiction again, just in case I’d missed the volume.
“Myth,” he repeated. “You know, they came up with a few of those.”
I shook my head, embarrassed to say it out loud even though I shouldn’t have been. Because Hunter wouldn’t know why I was asking for the title.
“It’s calledGrim Tidings: The History and Origins of…of the Grim Reaper.”
“Fire,” said Hunter, with appreciation. “And low-key unsettling.” His eyes darted like he thought there might be someone watching us, or hidden cameras aimed our way. “This for storytime research? I might come to that one. But just for the parents’ faces.”
My cheeks burned all the hotter, because I hadn’t thought of an excuse for why I wanted the book, and I could hardly tell Hunter it was because I’d had a… Well, I wasn’t sure what to call it. Technically, “near-death experience” applied, but not in the way one might assume.
“It’s… for a friend of mine,” I lied. “I told him I’d pull it and… and put it on hold for him.”
“He sounds cool,” said Hunter, who, without warning, abandoned his cart and stalked out of the aisle.
I blinked and, jarring myself into a scuttle, hurried after him. “Hunter?”
“You might just be in luck, Hart,” he called over one shoulder as he made a beeline to one of the tables that flanked the large windows overlooking the street and the trees that lined it, their limbs sleeved in rioting autumn foliage.
Halting at the table, empty of patrons, he aimed a hand at the book someone had left there—the very book I’d been seeking.
“Abra-ala-cadabra,” said Hunter. “One Grim Reaper reader with a side of déjà vu.”
“Omigosh!” I seized the title, a slim, small, and gray hardbackvolume with a black silhouette of the Grim Reaper on the cover, the title embossed in silver on the spine. “This is crazy. How’d you know this was here?”
“Yeeeeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced over his shoulder again. “There was a dude. He must have left it. Super-weird guy. He came up to me with the Dewey number asking for help, and I pulled it for him. Like, not even thirty minutes ago.”
Oh. That’s why Hunter had said it was “unsettling” that I was asking for the title, and why he’d mentioned déjà vu. Not because of the subject matter, but because I’d been the second person to request the title.
I blinked rapidly, trying to absorb this—and not put extra meaning to it.
Hard to do after what happened to me. After what failed to happen to me.
Maybe, if I was lucky, this book would provide some kind of insight as to what had occurred or, at the very least, point me to a source thatcouldprovide insight.
“Hunter,” I said, pulling the book close, “thanks.”
He waved me off. “I did it for the plot. Also, if he’s researching the Grim Reaper, your friend is metal. AndI’mmetal. Metalheads gotta stick together.”
Peeling away, he reinserted his AirPods. Riffing on air guitar, he then vanished between the stacks.
Frowning, I glanced left and right, scanning the reading areas for any sign of the “weird guy” who had requested the book. I didn’t see anyone who I thought classified as weird. Just a lady with thick glasses trudging into the eight hundreds, her arms already loaded down with books, and a backpack-wearing college kid headed for the checkout counter, a stack of titles tucked under one arm.
