Chapter 1
The cart’s wheel caught again.
Beth nudged it with her foot, then winced as the squeak echoed down the History and Geography aisle. Too loud. Libraries remembered sounds.
Old books smelled the same everywhere. Paper. Glue. Time.
Another Tuesday. Exactly like the last.
"Jay, it's time to go home," she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.
Something popped up behind the shelves. Dark curls appeared first. Then eyes.
Jay Patterson straightened slowly, a book still open in his hands. Freckles, nose nearly touching the page, backpack slumped on the floor where he’d dropped it.
"Miss Monroe, please let me finish this last chapter…"
"You said that forty minutes ago, and it's getting late." Eliza glanced at the antique clock above the circulation desk, 6:47 PM. "I don't want you getting your parents worried."
Jay's shoulders slumped, but he clutched the book tighter, his eyes pleading. The kid came here every day after school, and had done so for the past year.
"You know what? You can take the book home and return it tomorrow. But ensure you complete your school assignment; it takes priority over your leisure books." She raised an eyebrow.
"I'll finish it tonight, I promise! Thanks, Miss Monroe! You're the best!" Jay practically bounced toward the exit, the mythology book tucked under his arm like treasure.
Beth watched him disappear through the heavy oak doors and down the stairs. She smiled to herself. Small moments like these made the job worthwhile; quiet, simple, uncomplicated.
She moved through her closing routine with practiced ease: Chairs nudged back into place. She killed the overhead lights one row at a time, leaving the entrance bright.
The building answered with its usual noises. Settling. Breathing, familiar sounds that had become comforting over the past three years.
Beth pulled her worn gray cardigan tighter as she made her way to the circulation desk. The evening had turned cooler than expected.
This was her life now, and she'd grown to love it. Normal. Peaceful.
She grabbed her canvas tote bag, and fished out her keys.
Beth was reaching for the light switch by the main entrance when she heard footsteps up the library stairs.
She paused, frowning. Maybe Jay had doubled back for something. Or maybe it was Bill, the janitor, though he usually came in the mornings.
"We're closed," she called out, keeping her tone friendly but firm. "The library will reopen tomorrow at 9 a.m. If you need…"
She stopped as the footsteps continued to approach.
A man walked through the main entrance. Tall, well over six feet. Broad-shouldered. He wore dark jeans and a leather jacket, his hands visible at his sides. Something about the way he stood, perfectly still and watchful, made the hair on the back of her neck rise.
"I'm sorry, but you'll have to come back tomorrow," Beth said. "We're closed for the evening," she added.
She could see him more clearly now: sharp features, dark hair slightly too long, eyes that tracked her every movement with unnerving focus. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, fit, the kind of person who carried themselves with purpose.
"I'm not here for a book," he said. His voice was deep, controlled.
Beth's stomach tightened. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you. You'll need to…"
"Eliza."
The world stopped.
That name. No one had said that name in three years. No one in this town even knew that name. Beth felt ice flood her veins, felt her carefully constructed reality tilt dangerously.
"I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "My name is Beth Monroe. If you're looking for someone named…"
"Eliza Hartwell." He took another step closer, and she noticed he moved with deliberate control, like someone trained to be aware of their every action. "Former investigative journalist. Primary witness in the Commonwealth v. Kozlov case three years ago.
Her throat went dry. The keys bit into her palm. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
"Who are you?" The question came out as barely a whisper.
"My name is Marcus Kane." He stopped about ten feet away, maintaining the distance, his hands still visible and non-threatening. But his eyes never stopped moving, scanning the windows, the doors, the shadows. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. Your cover has been compromised. The Kozlov organization knows where you are. You need to come with me. Right now."
"No." The word burst out of her, sharp and panicked. She backed toward the door, keys rattling in her shaking hand. "No, I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't know who you are or what you…"
