“That’s not my job.”
“You know we get donations from private collections regularly. Don’t you want to be the one to sort them?”
I stared at him. He stared back. He won.
I exhaled through my nose. “Fine. If I die in the alley, I’m haunting the frog display first.”
“Please don’t,” he said mildly. “It’s seasonal.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I muttered, which was a sentence I said far too often right before regretting my life choices.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the staff exit, placing the crimson book back in the rare books room before leaving.
The alley smelled like damp cardboard. The ground was slick from the storm, and the brick walls pressed in closer than I liked. A white van idled near the loading bay, its back doors already open. The van was one of the tall cargo models—high roof, wide interior—like contractors used to haul ladders and sheetrock.
That was strike one. Everyone with half a brain cell knew white vans were associated with candy, poor judgment, and Dateline specials.
Strike two was the man standing in front of it. He was smiling widely. Too widely. Like his face had been told to perform friendliness but was given no further instructions.
He lifted one hand and waved.
I stopped walking.
This was how every cautionary tale started. Alley. Van. Man with a smile that did not belong in public service.
My brain did a quick inventory.
I was alone. It was early. The library was busy.
I should have turned around. Instead, I thought,But what if the books are really good?
I hated myself.
“You here for the delivery?” I called, keeping my distance.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “Got a big one for you today.”
That phrasing did not help.
I took another step closer anyway, because apparently, I was committed to making poor choices before noon.
I glanced around the van. No boxes visible. No carts. No straps.
Strike three.
My feet, however, did not listen to my brain.
I took a few cautious steps closer, telling myself I could always stop. I could always leave. I was an adult woman with boundaries and a sometimes non-existent sense of self-preservation.
I was also a librarian who had just found a missing book and was riding a dangerous competence high.
“Where are the books?” I asked.
His smile widened even more, which felt like an escalation. He stepped back toward the openrear of the van.
“In the back,” he said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
Of course they were.
