The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

on some of the stone pathways that’d come upheaved over the last few weeks.

By the time I was close enough, Astor and Carnegie came barreling through, barking and chasing each other and nearly crashing into the little old man. He was treated with a shock, stumbling on one of the upheaved corners of the pathway, before I crossed the few yards to him and held him upright.

He caught his balance, sitting quickly on the stone bench. “Beasts should be put in an early grave.”

“They’re just playing.” I offered a smile but couldn’t bring myself to hold his dark gaze. My eyes cast down his grimy work pants to land at the brown leather boots on his feet. My blood ran cold.

I recognized those boots.

TEN

Ryn

“Would you look at what the cat dragged in?”

“Thanks,” I grunted, taking my morning coffee from Thax. “Six a.m. comes early. I don’t think I slept five minutes.”

“Sleep is always the enemy,” he hummed, a section of The New York Times in hand.

“Especially with a ghost on your back.”

“Come again?” Thax’s eyes didn’t leave the paper.

“What was your gift from Yara, exactly?”

“Gift?” He glanced over the paper at me. “Oh, some beat up history books. I didn’t look at it, life’s too short for other people’s reading recommendations.”

I laughed. “Tell me about it, I’m never taking a book recommendation from you after Lilies in the Cellar.”

“Oh, that’s not reading material, that’s research. Reality is way more fucked up than fiction.” His eyes were scanning the paper as he spoke. “And speaking of…” He folded the paper then turned it to me. “Yara’s new book made the list, she bumped the last writer’s book.”

I frowned, no long interested in whatever drama Thax was trying to weave together in his mind.

And then last night came back to me.

Not the ghost. Not the puzzle piece clue with Zara’s name. The woman. The blindfold. The crime. Had I witnessed the same demise the last writer had succumbed to? I’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and praying for sleep to find me, just to force that image from my head. I’d swung from a state of paranoia, worrying that somehow Thax and I were next, to believing it was all a bad nightmare from which I still hadn’t woken up.

I hadn’t thought to call the police last night, mostly because our cell phones didn’t work through the thick library walls. But also because I wasn’t sure that I believed it’d even happened at all.

Yarrow shuffled in then, pausing in the doorway and looking me in the eyes. I held them, sharp like a hawk, and now that I did, I saw that one of his eyes was cloudy like he’d suffered an accident and never bothered to wear an eye patch.

“No class t’day.”

I jumped at the gruff tone of his syllables before he shuffled toward me, cloudy eyes still trained on my gaze. I cast my eyes down to the toes of my sneakers, his body moving so close to mine I could smell the days-old dirty laundry smell that wafted around him. He grunted heavily, sniffing loudly as before, knocking my shoulder as he walked by.

He poured the always present, but always cold, coffee into a disposable cup, then exited the dining room as quickly as he’d come.

“He’s about as pleasant as you are in the morning.”

I growled back at Thax, pushing the newspaper into his face before walking out of the room.

“You haven’t seen the worst of me yet!” I called over my shoulder.

“Wanna bet?” I heard Thax’s laugh even as I climbed the first flight of stairs. He was obnoxious to say the least, but I liked him because of that.

By the time I reached the final flight of stairs, I lingered, desperate for some fresh air. I turned, deciding then to take a quick walk down Fifth Avenue. I needed the pulse and hum of the traffic lights and bodies. I needed the anonymity to clear my head and inspire me outside of the stuffy walls of this library.

These Thornberrys.

By the time I reached the nearest exit and was onto the sidewalk my heart was racing with anticipation. No wonder Thax made a point of getting out of the library, the cool air on my skin was exhilarating. Cabs roared by the sidewalk, red lights crowding my vision as a wave of early morning humanity swallowed me. I walked with the flow of businessmen and women.

I turned left at the first corner, heading down West 42nd and into the pretty canopy of Bryant Park. I paused near one of the tall trees that towered over the sidewalk. New spring green buds popped as an array of tulips bloomed between the walking paths. I appreciated the breath of natural serenity. My eyes fluttered closed as I imagined all of the generations of people that’d hurried past this very spot on other Springtime days before this one.

New York City had a flush of personality that lit fire in my veins.

“You work at the library?” A rough-edged voice came from over my shoulder. I turned to find a little old man in a dark navy coat handing me a yellow tulip.

“I don’t. I’m part of a writing program the library is hosting though, so I’m staying for a few weeks.” I took the flower from him. “Thank you.”

“Writing program? At the library?” He frowned, then rambled forward. “Thought I heard they shut that down after some legal trouble a while back.” His eyes shifted over my shoulder and up to the roof of the library building. “I knew a girl that lived there once. She stole my heart a long time ago.”

“Maybe she still lives there,” I replied softly.

He shook his head. “She died before you were born.” His eyes cast around my features before he finally commented, “I’d say you look like her—but I guess they all do when you get to be my age.”

I smiled, wondering who I’d be daydreaming of someday when