Page 1 of The Fake Out

ONE

Are you from Tennessee, because you’re the only ten I see.

—JULIA B.

There was a man sleeping in my library.

Well, not exactly my library. The Two Harts Public Library didn’t belong to me personally. I was, however, its only employee. Not by choice, mind you. It had been a year ago when the city council in all its brilliance (which is to say, none), led by its fearless (idiot) mayor, decided to slash the library budget to bare bones. As a result, I was a one-woman show. Book circulation? That was me. Afterschool homework club? Me. Genealogy classes? You’re looking at her. Hall monitor, light housekeeping, budget maker. Me, me, and me. All that on a salary that would make most people cry.

But, like most librarians, I wasn’t in it for the money.

The Two Harts Public Library had always been a special place for me. We’d moved here – my mom, baby sister, and me – when I was ten. The three of us were nothing more than a huddle of raw nerves and exhaustion after years on the road with my father, none of them good.

Here at the library, I’d found friends among Anne who lived at Green Gables, or Laura Ingalls in the Piney Woods. I didn’t have to worry that I was That Girl whose dad was in and out of prison. Or when he wasn’t locked up, doing all the things that landed him in prison in the first place. No one whispered about my mama and how she had to work three jobs to get by. No one felt sorry for me and my hand-me-down clothes. Here, I was just… Mae Sampson, the girl who liked to read.

As far as I was concerned, the library was sacred ground, the same way some people felt about a church building or how most Texans felt about a football field.

So, it really pissed me when I found a man sleeping in the non-fiction section.

I’d just ushered little Jordan Hunter—age six, big fan of dinosaurs—into the warm March sun and had given the front door lock a satisfying click. I kicked my sandals off and groaned in delight.

Although I loved my job, the hours I spent here added up. As the one and only employee, I couldn’t slack. If I didn’t do it, no one else would. It’s not how I’d expected my library career to go. I’d hoped to find a position at a large library system far away from Two Harts where I could work as a children’s librarian. The thought of living in anonymity where no one knew of the Sampson family sounded like a dream. Extra points if it was in an entirely different state.

But as much as I wanted to believe dreams could come true in real life and not only in books, the truth was few of us ever got anywhere close to achieving them.

The book return cart was overflowing so I pulled up my latest audiobook on my phone, turned the volume up as loud as it could go, and tossed it on the cart. The historical romance had come to the first kiss, and I was a bit distracted by the Duke of Fellows’ prowess. The poor bookish second daughter of a disgraced viscount was certainly not complaining.

I turned the corner to make my way to the 600s (Applied Sciences) with a copy of Old Tractors and the Men Who Love Them. I’d purchased it after a special request from Mr. Conway, who has since checked it out every couple of months. “To look at the pictures,” he said.

And there he was.

A big oaf of a man, slouched in the armchair I’d gotten from an estate sale after old Mrs. Friedman went to the Great Beyond. It should be noted she passed away while sitting in said chair, but I thought that gave it character.

I shrieked. The book slipped from my hand and landed with a thud on the floor.

Shockingly, the man did not budge.

Or at least, it didn’t look like he did. It was hard to tell with the baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, dark hair peeking out around his ears. His jean-clad legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles where he blocked the 750s (Art and Recreation).

Everything about him seemed oversized, in a long, lean sort of way. The arm dangling to the side almost reached the floor. His enormous tennis shoe-clad feet. A hand the size of a dinner plate splayed across the open book on his chest. I didn’t recognize him, and he seemed memorable by sheer size alone.

Two Harts was a small dot on the Texas map, about forty-five minutes west of Houston, and this library was the only one for four towns. I knew everyone who visited the library; I knew their reading tastes, their family tree, and (unfortunately for some) their internet search history.

What bothered me the most was that he’d gotten in here without me noticing. This was exactly the reason I’d asked the city council to consider putting in one measly security camera, especially now I was here alone. After all, this man could be a criminal or violent or request to check out a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

The man shifted a bit, his hat moving enough to give me a glimpse of one dark eyebrow and a jawline dusted with at least a day or two of growth. From where I stood, he looked like he could use a shave and a haircut. But for all his scruffiness, he didn’t appear dirty.

Annoyed, I inched closer and nudged one of his giant feet. He didn’t so much as flinch. My eyes narrowed on his chest to make sure he was still breathing. The last thing I needed was a dead guy in my library.

Good news. Still alive.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”

Nothing. Yet, I was reminded of the millions of times I’d played hide-and-seek with my sister when she was very young and believed that if she kept her eyes shut and couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see her. Surely this grown man wouldn’t be playing the same kind of silly game.

After glaring at him for several seconds, I stomped to a small closet and retrieved a broom. Standing as far back as I could, I poked his arm. “Hey, wake up. Library’s closed.”

Still no reply.