Burning Books Page 24

  Molly lay in the cold embrace of the moonbeams, dry-eyed, weighed down by the inertia of grief, as the hours ticked by and the house fell silent around her. When she was certain Cary and his children were asleep, she pulled the burning book from her overnight bag and crept down the hallway, finding her way by the aid of a dim nightlight.

  The guest bathroom was small compared to the master bath off Cary’s room. The beach décor stole its claustrophobic crampedness; pale-blue walls above wainscoting painted to match the cloud-white ceiling made the room seem larger and more open. Molly closed the toilet lid and sat down, pushing aside a shower curtain printed with starfish and beach umbrellas to reveal the pristine white tub behind it.

  She smoothed her hand over the cover of the book, running her fingers blindly over the gold-leaf embossing, staring at a pair of framed watercolors on the wall. In one, a crab scuttled across the beach just out of the reach of the surf. In the other, a conch shell lay on wet sand as a wave swirled around it. Conch shells always made her think of Lord of the Flies, a story that had always filled her with a vague revulsion of the depths to which the human soul could sink and a niggling anxiety of how easily people could slip from civilized to barbaric under the right circumstances.

  And what was she, at this very moment? Was it barbaric for her to read this book despite what its burning could unleash inside her brother? Or was it barbaric to turn her back on what she suspected to be the truth, despite what Cary’s father thought: that these books were the keys to unlocking the memories of the world, stolen from humankind for reasons unknown, most likely by wholly unsavory people. Save Magnus, or save the world. Simple as that.

  She turned to the back and whispered her name. Felt her heart break a fraction at her betrayal as flames erupted and consumed the pages. Holding the book over the tub, she let it drop into the porcelain receptacle and watched it burn until the last speck of ash bloomed orange and winked out of existence.

  When she opened the bathroom door, the nightlight revealed Cary leaning against the hallway wall, ankles and arms crossed. His plaid-flannel lounge pants and rumpled grey T-shirt indicated he’d at least made an attempt at slumber. She wondered if she’d awakened him, despite how quiet she’d tried to be, or if he’d never gone to sleep in the first place. Or perhaps the book burning had jolted him out of sleep; he was as inextricably tied to the magic as were she and Magnus.

  “You should have told me you were burning a book tonight.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you with it. You said you didn’t want to pursue the Augury Group, so I just assumed you didn’t want to have anything to do with the books. I didn’t mean to make you feel left out.”

  “I don’t. I’m not going to investigate their involvement any further, but that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about the effects those books have on you or your brother.” He pushed away from the wall and cupped her face between his hands. “I care about you, Molly. I don’t want you to have to face alone whatever this is.”

  His arms slid around her. Molly sank against him, his solid warmth anchoring her, banishing the surrealistic fog that had enveloped her since the hospital. She didn’t protest when he guided her back to her room and tucked her under the covers, or when he pressed upon her a sleep aid to ensure she rested.

  Tomorrow was soon enough to agonize over Magnus’s looming darkness.

  ∞1∞

  It was nearly noon when Molly rose. The guest bathroom was now stocked with a zippered plastic bag containing her toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant, and a change of clothes. She stared at the items dully, a tendril of unease worming through her gut. Her one odd quirk of personality was the queer sensation of disquiet that uncoiled inside her when anyone invaded her personal space without her permission. Sometimes even with her permission. So knowing he’d taken her keys and let himself into her home skewed her mood toward irritability. But she readied herself for the day and thanked him over coffee in the kitchen, pushing aside the uncharitable feeling of violation.

  After breakfast, he brought her into his study along with a thermal carafe of coffee and a plate of shortbread cookies. Molly curled into a wingback chair by the fireplace, reading a popular suspense novel on her phone, while he sat behind a large partners desk, grading papers. But the novel’s story made her edgy—too close to that of Cecily—and her mind kept obsessing over Cary retrieving her personal items from her home while she slept.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid Molly. And just be grateful he was kind enough to get you clean underwear for the day. And she was—truly—especially since he’d brought plain-Jane white panties and an equally plain bra to go with the faded jeans and comfortable sweater he’d picked out. He wanted her to be comfortable here, wanted her to feel no obligation to be charming or sexy or even communicative, but she just couldn’t relax.

  Laying her head against the wing of the chair, she stared at the room instead, feeling as though she’d been entombed in the dark, block-paneled room. Floor lamps in two corners and beside the wingback chair where she sat presumably lit the study to a comfortable degree, but currently the only light in the room came from the lamp beside her and the banker’s lamp on the desk by which he worked. The glow was too meager to banish all the shadows, which played over the dark pine-green walls above the paneling. Cary’s shadow on the wall moved in time to the scratching of his pen, arousing in Molly a vague dread that held her rigid in her chair.

  Around three thirty, he looked up at the mantle clock and laid down his red pen. “My kids will be home soon. I’ll go make them a snack and get them settled into homework in the dining room. Do you want anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?”

  She managed a stilted smile. “Sure. That would be nice.”

  His gaze lingered on her, concerned—psychiatrist Cary in full mode—but he refrained from comment, offering a small smile of his own as he left the room, taking with him his overpowering presence. She breathed a little easier. When she heard the children come through the door, chattering and clomping as they shed coats and boots and backpacks, she unfolded herself from her chair and clicked on one of the corner lamps. That was better; the room seemed less cavelike and more welcoming. The paneling nearest the lamp now glowed cherry instead of espresso, and she could make out the details of the framed Escher prints mounted on the paneling above the chair rail. She debated turning off the light; Escher’s surrealistic work was probably the last thing she needed right now. The world already seemed to have tilted four degrees off normal.

  Averting her eyes from the prints, she let them travel over the block panels. Wood was warm, soothing, and the recessed rectangles gave her eyes an easy path to travel. Around and around, until she could almost see the thin, dark outline around one of them. She blinked. The line was still visible.

  She scooted out of her chair again and knelt in front of the panel, running her fingernail along the line. It sank into the gap.

  “What are you doing?” Cary asked curiously. Molly jumped and spun on her knees. He stood a few feet behind her, peering over her shoulder, amused at finding her on her knees probing at the paneling.

  “There’s a gap here around this square.”

  He shrugged, dropped into a squat beside her, and held a hand over one side of the block to feel for a draft. “Seattle’s damp air is not so good for wood paneling. I’ll probably have to get someone in to fix it, keep drafts from coming in.”

  Molly pried at the center of the block with her fingernail. “It’s loose. You might have to have them fix that, too.”

  He prodded at the center of the block, feeling its slight give. “Always something with these old houses. Dad could have fixed a million little things before he sold it to us, but no. Lee and I spent the first two years here just fixing small things that ended up costing several grand.”

  “This was your dad’s house? You grew up here?”

  “No, we had a house in Queen Ann. He moved here when I was in college, after he and my mother divorced. I wonder how much
this is going to cost to fix.”

  He prodded at the panel again, a little harder this time. Something clicked inside, and the block popped out about an inch. Molly gasped. Cary leaned forward, his eyes wide with surprise, and pulled on the panel. It swung open on a hidden hinge. He grinned like a delighted boy.

  “This is incredible!” He fumbled his phone out of his jeans pocket and tapped an icon. A blinding light hit Molly’s eyes. “Sorry.”

  Lowering the light, he aimed it into the space. The cubbyhole was as wide as the panel but shallow, only the depth between this wall and that of the room next to the study. Other than the layer of dust coating the bottom plate inside the wall, the space was utterly empty.

  Cary sighed in disappointment. “No hidden treasure. Not much room to hide anything, actually. That’s pretty interesting, though. And at least I don’t have to have someone come fix that. God only knows what that would cost me.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “What’s wrong, Molly? You’ve gone pale.”

  “Just stood up too fast. And I still feel a little hungover from whatever you gave me to help me sleep last night.”

  He brushed a hand over her hair and kissed her forehead. “Would you like to lie down?”

  “No. I think I’m going to go home, have a light dinner, and go to bed. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Are you all right to drive? I can call a cab. Or the kids and I can take you home; they’d love a break from homework.”

  She smiled. Her face felt frozen, allowing her mouth to curve only slightly. In response, his concerned frown deepened. “I’m all right to drive. I’ll be very careful.”

  His gaze swept her face again critically. “If you’re sure. Text me when you get home so I know you made it home safe.”

  “I will. Thank you for last night—for everything. I truly appreciate it.”

  “I meant what I said last night. I care about you.”

  She lifted up on her tiptoes to kiss him gently. “I know. I care about you, too. You don’t have to worry. I’ll be myself in a day or two.”

  “Call if you need anything.”

  After retrieving her belongings from the guest room, she escaped to her car, the cold air welcome although she shivered to her core. It sharpened her fuzzy mind, dispelling the effects of last night’s sleeping pill and today’s mind-numbing lack of activity.

  It’s too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence, he’d said just the other day.

  So what was she to make of the coincidence of Cecily finding a similar niche in her husband’s den, and Molly finding one in her lover’s study?

  She shook off the thought. Last night’s events and her suspicions about Magnus had jolted her off-kilter; she was seeing enemies in every shadow. Best to just get a good night’s sleep and let her world center itself while she was safely locked in unconsciousness.

  Lynda called while she was retrieving the fifth book from the bag of clothes in the garage.

  “It was a busy day,” she said by way of apology for not calling sooner. “It started out with three kids hurling on the floor just inside the front doors—the flu, wouldn’t it figure—and progressed to morning recess and a kid climbing the tetherball pole and promptly falling off once he reached the top. Boys. I swear to God, Mols, if I ever have kids, I’m having all girls. They don’t take risks like that.”

  “They don’t? And how many broken bones did you have by age ten?”

  Lynda chuckled. “Six. Point taken. What are you doing?”

  “I just got home—I stayed at Cary’s last night. I’m going to read for a while and then go to sleep. It was a pretty bad night last night.” Molly turned the green-leather book over in her hand. What new and horrific revelations awaited her in this one?

  “Definitely surreal,” her friend muttered. “Give me a call tomorrow. We can go to lunch and maybe hit the mall. I need a new purse.”

  “You just got one.”

  “Magnus bled all over it. That doesn’t come out of suede.”

  “Sure, it does. Take it to the cleaners—they can get just about anything out of anything.” She set the book aside and lifted the bag, spinning it to twirl the top closed. She put Lynda on speakerphone long enough to secure the bag closed and shove it back on the shelf, then slotted her house key into the lock and let herself inside.

  “It doesn’t hurt to have a new purse. A woman can never have too many shoes or too many handbags.”

  “All right. We’ll go to the mall. But you’re buying me lunch. That’s the price of dragging me out and about.”

  Lynda snorted. “You’ve become a hermit, Mols. You need human interaction. That’s why it’s a good thing you’ve found yourself a man. There are only so many voids I can fill for you.”

  Molly smiled in spite of herself. “Crazy woman. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She ended the call and dropped her phone into her purse with the green book, and not a moment too soon. Magnus came into the kitchen from the sitting room just as she closed the garage door. He stopped short and closed his eyes, his bandaged hand held to his heart, sucking in a breath.

  “You scared the shit out of me, Molly.”

  “Likewise. I didn’t think you would be home.”

  “I’ve been home all day. Unlike you.”

  “I was at a friend’s.” She dumped her purse onto the kitchen island and drew a glass of water, drinking deeply. After refilling it, she turned to find him smirking knowingly.

  “You were at Cary Welch’s, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  A surge of annoyance sharpened her tone. “What is your problem with him?”

  “He puts up my hackles.”

  “So? You put up everyone’s hackles.”

  “I see this is going to be another pointless argument, so I’ll change the subject now. Cess and I are going to a midnight movie tonight. I’ll crash at her place, so go ahead and lock up tight.” His mouth slanted, as though he wanted to say, I know you will be obsessive about locking up, because you’re just a little crazy yourself.

  “You’re leaving awfully early for a midnight movie.”

  “We’ll hang around her place for a while, then go to dinner. You’re pretty irritable, so I didn’t figure you wanted me to hang around here.”

  Molly softened. “This is your house too, Magnus. I’m just tired and still in shock about Genevieve. I’m going to read, and then I’m going to go to bed.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Read what? Those books?” Then he smiled a bit snidely. “Oh, that’s right, you can’t, because you misplaced one of them.”

  She didn’t rise to the bait. “No. Some suspense book on my Kindle app. Drive safe.” She snagged her purse off the island as she edged past him, kissing him on the cheek before he could move away. He grimaced, taking two steps backward to escape her.

  The front door closed loudly behind him as she went into her room upstairs. She locked her door behind her, changed into sweats, and flopped onto her bed. Remembering she was supposed to call Cary, she tapped his name in her contacts list, rolled over onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling. The swirled texture under the soft-white paint reminded her of fluffy white clouds in a summer sky.

  “Molly.” Cary’s voice, a soothing caress through the connection. “I see you made it home safely.”

  “I did. I’d have called sooner but Lynda—my friend—called me, and then I had a skirmish with Magnus.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “No, just standard sibling antagonism.”

  “I hope you’re going to rest for a while now. You had a rough night.”

  She yawned. “I may take a nap, but I have something to do later this evening.” Silence filled the line. She realized how her remark could be construed and rushed to explain. “I’m going back to Cecily’s after she and Magnus leave for dinner.”

  “Cecily?” he said blankly. “Who is Cecily?”

  “Magnus’s frie
nd. You know, the one he watches movies with and stays with sometimes. I actually think they’re more than friends, but he’ll never admit it to me.”

  Understanding dawned in his tone. “Oh, I see. You’ve never mentioned her by name before, so I wasn’t sure who you were talking about.” And then, sternly, “And why are you going back there? Did Magnus take another book?”

  “No, I hid them in the garage. He’ll never look for them in there.” She bit her lip. “Look, there’s something I discovered that I haven’t told you about yet.”

  “Do tell,” he invited, but he didn’t sound amused.

  She did, trying to put everything in logical order so it didn’t sound farfetched, but she feared it did, anyway, especially when he let another of those long silences build between them.

  “I wanted to see if there was anything to it—any proof—before I mentioned it. Which is why I’m going to Cecily’s tonight. If Magnus were to have . . . souvenirs, he would never keep them here. He’d keep them where his meddling sister couldn’t find them.” She flinched at the bitterness in her voice. “Besides that, she has these photo albums on the shelf under her coffee table—just like Idiot Woman. Between that and the Starbucks cup and the jar of sea glass—”

  “Molly, I advise you to rethink this. Breaking in to get your book . . . well, that’s one thing. You probably shouldn’t have even done that, and I probably shouldn’t have encouraged you. But this . . . You have no reason to believe Magnus is doing anything that would result in him keeping trophies. I thought we’d settled that last night. And you have no reason to believe she’s the woman in your books. Some sea glass and photo albums aren’t positive proof.”

  “You forgot the Cinnamon Dulce Latte cup, and the sand dollars, and the five eelgrass shells. Five, Cary, exactly five. Just like Idiot Woman.”