Between Love Passion and Power

2 Girl from Library

Not walking. Gone. One blink, and the aisle was empty. No footsteps, no rush of air, only the faint, lingering smell of something metallic and the sound of Olivia's own breath rasping in her throat.

She stared at the empty floor where the body had lain. There was no blood. No marks on the wood. The leather book that the older man had been about to take down was still on the shelf, undisturbed.

Her thumb trembled as she dialed.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency."

"There has been a murder at the Denver Public Library, third floor, west aisle. Please come quickly."

Denver dispatched fast. The first patrol cars pulled up within four minutes, lights silent but flashing. Two officers came through the front doors, hands resting near their belts, followed shortly by a detective in a brown coat. Olivia met them in the lobby, still shaking, and led them upstairs.

The third floor was empty.

The aisle was empty.

The shelf marked R-47 stood undisturbed, dust unsmudged, the leather book exactly where she had pointed it out twenty minutes earlier.

The detective, a heavyset man with a grey moustache, crouched by the floor and ran a gloved finger along the wood.

"No blood, miss," he said quietly. "No scuff marks. No struggle. You are sure this is where it happened?"

"Yes." Olivia's voice cracked. "Right here. He was on his knees. There was a spear through his chest. The young man, the one I told you about, he was standing right there."

The detective exchanged a glance with the officer behind him.

"Let us check the cameras," he said.

They went down to the security office. The night manager was already there, pulling up the footage. Olivia stood behind them, her arms wrapped tight around her ribs.

The screen flickered through the timestamps. Five forty-five. Six o'clock. Six oh four.

She watched herself appear on the lobby camera, leaning on the front desk, turning pages.

There was no older man. The front door never opened. No draft of air, no figure stepping through.

She watched herself look up suddenly, smile, type something into the catalogue, and then walk out from behind the desk. She watched herself cross the floor toward the stairs, alone, talking to no one.

She watched herself pass the philosophy corner.

The corner was empty. The chair was tucked neatly under the table. There was no young man, no abandoned book, no coat.

The detective rewound. He fast-forwarded. He cycled through every camera on every floor.

The third-floor camera showed Olivia walking up the aisle, alone. Standing in front of shelf R-47, alone. Pointing at empty air. Speaking to no one. Then turning and walking away.

A few minutes later, on the same camera, she came running back, alone, mouth open in a scream. She fell to her knees beside an empty patch of floor. She held her phone to her ear and spoke urgently to no one, to nothing.

The officer in the back of the room cleared his throat softly.

The detective turned in his chair.

"Miss Whitmore," he said, gently. "Are you currently under any medication. Have you been seeing anyone. A doctor, a counsellor."

"What. No. I." Olivia stared at the screen. Her own face stared back, wide-eyed, screaming at nothing. "He was there. They were both there. I saw him. I spoke to him. He asked for a book. The young man stabbed him. I saw it."

The front doors of the library opened again.

A man and a woman hurried in, both in their late forties, both pale. The woman wore a pearl-grey coat, her dark hair pinned back severely. The man was tall and stooped, his glasses fogged from the cold. They came directly to the security office as though they already knew the way.

"Olivia," the woman said, her voice tight with worry. "Olivia, sweetheart, what happened."

"Mom," Olivia breathed. The word felt strange in her mouth, the way it always did. "Mom, there was a man, he was killed, I saw it, I saw."

The detective straightened. "And you are."

"William and Margareth Whitmore," the man said, extending a hand. He did not quite meet the detective's eyes. "We are her parents. I am sorry, officer, has she."

He glanced at his wife. Margareth pressed her lips together.

"She has these episodes sometimes," Margareth said, very softly, as though confessing something painful. "They have grown less frequent over the years. We thought she had outgrown them. She sees things. People who are not there. Whole conversations. She believes them completely while they are happening."

"That is a lie." Olivia's voice cut across the room.

She turned on her foster parents, fists clenched at her sides. "That is a lie. You know that is a lie. I have never seen anything that was not real. Why are you saying this. Why are you saying this to them."

The detective's face had already softened with the particular weariness of a man who has been here many times before, in many rooms like this one.

"Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore," he said, "perhaps we can finish this conversation tomorrow. Take her home. Get her some rest."

William placed a hand on Olivia's shoulder. His grip was firm, but his fingers trembled.

"Come on, Olivia," he said quietly. "Come on now. Let us get you home."

Olivia stared at him. Her eyes burned.

'You know,' she thought, looking from his face to Margareth's. 'You both know I am not lying. I can see it. I can see it in your eyes.'

But she said nothing. She let him guide her out of the security office, through the lobby, past the empty corner table, and into the cold rain.

The car pulled away from the library and into the dark wet streets of Denver.

***

Across the city, in a high-rise apartment on the twenty-third floor, the door of unit 2304 opened and closed.

Henry Calloway dropped a long, dark bundle on the floor of his foyer. The body, wrapped now in a black sheet, made a heavy sound against the marble. He shrugged off his coat, ran a hand through his ash-grey hair, and walked into the living room without bothering to switch on the lights. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.

A man rose from the leather armchair in the corner. He was a few years older than Henry, broad through the chest, with a close-cropped beard and eyes the color of tea-stained brass. Tony Reyes. Beta of the Calloway Pack. Henry's right hand since they were both twelve years old.

"You are bleeding," Tony said.

"It is not mine."

"I gathered." Tony walked over, looked at the body in the foyer, and let out a slow breath. "Vance."

"Vance."

"Council will want to know."

"They will know. After."

Henry crossed to the window and stood there with his hands behind his back. The rain ran in long silver lines down the glass. His reflection looked back at him, pale and sharp. He had not blinked since he came through the door.

Tony watched him for a long moment.

"What happened, Henry."