The Library After Dark: A Novel(101)
“So the book did exist.”
“Of course. Once upon a time, it did.” My smile dimmed. “It’s not for children. To have the stories touted as such…” I pressed a hand to my forehead with a hoarse laugh. “Heaven knows how many children I’ve scarred, by being a little too honest with my imagination.”
A hand settled on my knee, and I let my hand fall. I would have felt rather silly, if not for the sincerity in the younger woman’s dark eyes. “It was that honesty that helped me see my own. When you’re brave enough to put yourself out there for all to see, that’s how we show others they aren’t alone.” A flicker of a smile. “That’s what art is.”
“I’m hardly—”
“You have books and movies and shows and—and conspiracy theories and fandoms who’ve all spawned out of your work, and that’s to say nothing of the actual people. Being anonymous doesn’t change that.”
I usually prided myself on being eloquent. Here…she’d robbed me of all speech.
She nodded, a stray curl flitting forward. “Callum Greene still wants to see it—the book—and I suspect one day he will. But I know I can make him understand. He’ll keep your secret.”
I wanted that to be a relief, but if the collection were to be examined, its authenticity would be the smallest concern; I’d imagine people would be far more interested in the crusted blood streaked across the original cover. Blood that my daughter put there, nearly twenty years before, when she murdered Grant Iverson.
After a decade of trying to get The Tales—my writing—back, he’d finally agreed to sell it. But with the papers on my desk, the pen balanced in my fingers, I realized I didn’t need The Tales—that they didn’t belong to me anymore. And when the rage came spilling out of Grant, Alice, it turned out, had a great deal more darkness in her than I’d ever realized.
His blood—his murder, my daughter’s freedom, and her own little girl’s future—became twined to the book’s fate.
To keep the book out of other hands, I signed the papers right away. In the early hours, I drove Grant’s car to the Hudson, stationed it in an abandoned lot with a suicide note. I never suspected we would actually get away with it, but years ticked by before I learned that Alice never stopped guarding her secret.
My time with Grant had made me feel small and powerless; I resolved never to be so again, and to raise my gentle, sensitive Alice into a woman who drove the world instead of succumbing to it. But for her, the most important thing was her daughter—being there for Rory in a way I never was for her.
Alice finally found the ruthlessness I’d tried to instill, only she used it to silence anyone who might’ve discovered the blood on the book, the only evidence of her crime, and take her away from her girl. And I’d allowed it to happen.
Regret burned a path through my memories; it’s hard to grasp how our actions ripple down throughout the generations, and what might begin as a trickle of blood might end in a river. I could only hope that Rory and Aria—my darling Ariadne, who bore the weight of my failures—could forgive me for what I’d done.
“I figured out the pattern, you know,” Michelle said, stirring. “The tales are out of order, but the first sentence of each one references the story it comes after. Am I right?”
“Well done,” I said, coming to myself. “Grant made some changes, but yes, that’s it. It was always cathartic, writing, even if it was for my eyes alone. I often didn’t know how to make sense of things until they were on paper.” Then after a moment, “Would you— Would you like to read the rest?”
Michelle’s face transformed. “There are more?”
I smiled.
Acknowledgments
If you’ve been around authors long enough, you’ve probably heard that book twos are the bane of an author’s existence; The Library After Dark was no different. This book was cursed through and through, and while I was stumbling down its labyrinthine passageways, many people lit lanterns for me when I took a wrong turn or couldn’t see through the dark.
My brilliant agent, Hannah Schofield, spent countless hours shepherding me through the mirey bog of this book. My editors, Jenny Chen and Thorne Ryan, patiently read draft after draft and wouldn’t settle for any less than my best; I’m so thankful you didn’t let me get away with any hand-wavery (although I’m still a little brokenhearted about giving up the starring scene of my emotional support flesh-eating beetles; next book, eh?).
I’m also endlessly grateful to my new editor Elizabeth Counsell, Finn Cotton, Anna Carvanova, Jean Slaughter, Sarah Breivogel, Daniel Denning, Becky Short, Julia Gaynor, Cara DuBois, Sheryl Rapée-Adams, Daisy Messent, and the wider Bantam, Transworld, and LBA teams. I’ve leaned a lot on you all these last months; thank you for having my back. And I’d be remiss without a resounding thank-you to my wonderful foreign rights team, ILA, for bringing my stories to the wider world.
Mikayla Bridge knew what this story was before anyone else, including me. Mikayla, you are this book’s ideal reader; thank you for that late-night emergency brainstorm session across the Australia–Scotland time zones, when I lay on the floor and let you pick through the broken shards of this story. Chrystal Schleyer, Erin Connor, C. G. Honer, Alice Courtney, Shar Mease, Madison T. Nelson, Kayla Hill, Jessica Payne, Tori Miranda, Briana Louis, Madison Koviak, and Elle Edquist all gave invaluable feedback on various incarnations of this book. Christine Cohen greeted me more Thursdays than not with muffins and coffee and an encouraging pat on the back. And Madison N. and Shannon Spann joined me for a fast and furious research trip to the Morgan in New York City.