Page 79 of His To Erase

Ani

Sloane isn’t at the library when I get there, which is weird. She’s never late. Not once in the entire year we’ve worked side-by-side—through blizzards, food poisoning, and that time she tried to “reconnect with her inner child” and wiped out on roller skates.

But now, her chair’s empty, her name tag is still hanging on the staff board, and there’s no text. No explanation. Just a weird, crawling sensation under my skin that won't quit.

People have lives, Ani. Not everything is an omen. Not everything is about you.

Still, I check the staff lounge twice. And the bathroom. And the alley behind the drop box.

Nothing.

I make it an hour and a half before she finally walks in—flushed and breathless, with her ponytail crooked and her cardigan buttoned wrong.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, tossing her bag behind the desk. “I had…uh, a thing. You’re good to take your break now though.”

I blink at her. “You sure? I haven’t finished shelving the new—”

“I’ve got it,” she cuts in. “Seriously. You look like you need air. You’ve got that…I’ve-been-thinking-about-him-again face.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already moving, grabbing the cart and heading for the stacks like she’s on a mission.

Weird.

Sloane never volunteers to shelve. Ever. She once called it “the most spiritually deadening task in human history.” And now she’s humming under her breath and pretending not to glance at the front door every ten seconds.

I just watch as that uneasy prickle turns into a full-on internal itch.

“You okay?” I ask finally.

“Peachy,” she says—a little too fast. Then she hesitates, glancing over her shoulder. “If anyone asks where I went, just say I had to make a deposit.”

I blink. “What kind of deposit?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just say it like you mean it.”

“…Okay.”

She grabs a book—putting it back upside down. Then pauses again. “And hey. If you ever find yourself somewhere that smells like my grandfather’s cigars… don’t sign anything.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

She just gives me a small smile. “Just… promise me you’ll remember.”

“…Okay. Weird, but okay.”

“And hey—text me before you leave.”

“Even if you’re still here?”

She nods, a little too eagerly. “Especially if I’m still here.”

There’s a beat of silence. She grabs another book. “People aren’t always who you think they are, Ani. Just—remember that.”

She flashes a smile, then disappears down the aisle labeled Historical Non-Fiction, humming some off-key lullaby that makes the hair on my neck stand up.

Something is definitely wrong.

It’s almost time to leave when I realize I still haven’t heard from him.

The thought lands hard and sharp as I flip the last chair onto the table and wipe down the desk in slow, robotic circles.

I don’t want to spiral about it. He’s told me I’m his more times than I can count.

I know that doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship or whatever—but I thought I’d at least get a message. Something. Anything.

My fingers itch toward my phone, even though I know I shouldn’t check again. I’ve already looked—twice.

Sloane’s been acting weird all day. Not just distracted—jumpy. She made me reshelve an entire cart in the wrong section, then snapped at me when I corrected it. And now she’s standing at the far end of the room, pretending to tidy up the archives, even though no one’s been in there for days.

I glance at her, and she looks up too quickly.

“Hey,” I call out. “I’m locking up.”

She nods, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Cool. I’ll be out in a sec.”

I don’t buy it, but I don’t have the bandwidth to dig. Not now. Not when my chest is already tight for reasons I can’t name and my brain’s playing ping-pong with worst-case scenarios.

I duck into the staff hallway, more out of habit than anything—just a quick breather before grabbing my bag.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out faster than I’ve done anything all day. My heart skips, praying for his name. Only, it’s not from him. It’s not a message, it’s a photo. And the second I open it, my knees buckle against the side wall.

It’s Steven.

He’s slumped in a chair, head down, face bloodied, one arm is hanging like it’s been pulled from the socket—and his shirt soaked through, and he looks…he looks dead.

No.

No, no, no.

I can’t breathe.

My lungs seize up, and the phone shakes in my hands so violently I almost drop it. The edges of the hallway blur, and everything tilts. My body is frozen, but my thoughts are screaming.

Who sent this? Where is he? Why would someone—The photo burns itself into my vision.

I need to—I don’t fucking know. Call someone?

Run? Scream until my lungs give out? My brain's short-circuiting, sparking and crashing in loops I can’t get out of.

I just know I need to move because standing here like this, shaking and useless while he’s somewhere, tied up and bleeding—yeah, that’s not an option.

I shove the phone into my pocket and whirl back toward the front of the library. Sloane’s at the desk now, but I don’t even look at her as I snatch my coat.

“I need to go,” I say, breathless.

“You okay?” she asks, too fast. “Do you want me to—”

“I’m fine.” I lie.

I don’t remember grabbing my keys or texting Sarah. I barely remember pushing through the front door, except for the part where the air hits me like a punch and my body finally remembers how to breathe.

The image of Steven—bleeding, tied, broken—won’t leave me alone.

I don’t know what I’m walking into. But I know who might have answers and if this has anything to do with Frank—If the gut-deep wrongness I’ve been ignoring finally decided to show its teeth—then .

My fingers move before I can stop them, dialing Frank. He doesn’t answer. The call cuts off on the first ring like the call was rejected. A second later, a message lights up the screen.

FRANK: Busy at the club, baby. What’s wrong?

My heart slams against my ribs because it doesn’t make sense.

Something about it is off. Since when does Frank pass on a chance to talk to me?

But still—some panicked, scrambling part of me thinks maybe he can help.

Maybe if I show him the picture. Maybe if I lie and say Steven’s a friend, or my brother.

Frank’s always been protective when it suits him. Calculated, but territorial.

He wouldn’t let someone hurt me… right? Not if he still thinks I’m his?

I don’t know but I’ll figure out the story when I get there. I just need him to look at it and tell me who the hell would send me something like that. And if he hesitates—Even for a second—I’ll know.

Even as the words echo through my skull, I know I’m grasping at smoke. But it’s a lie I need to believe—because the alternative is worse.

So I get in the Uber, heart racing like I’ve already made the wrong call, and I tell myself it’s a smart move. I’ll get help and play nice long enough to get answers. Then I’ll deal with everything else.

The car slows and the club looms in front of me like a monument to every lie I’ve swallowed. Every choice I didn’t get to make. Every time someone called me sweet or pretty or safe—then used me anyway.

It’s dark.

No valet.

No cars.

No bass bleeding through the walls like usual. Just shadows clinging to the doorframe like a warning. The front entrance is shut tight and there’s no flicker of security, no line of overdressed assholes checking their lipstick in the windows. Just silence and dead glass—reflecting nothing but me.

The driver glances back. “You want me to wait?”

“No,” I say, though my voice sounds hollow. Like someone else’s mouth is moving.

I step out and the door clicks shut behind me like the punchline to a joke I haven’t caught up to yet. My boots echo across the pavement, every step feels too loud. Frank said he was here, and that he was busy. So where the fuck is everyone?

My fist curls around the handle before I even register the movement. Locked. Of course it’s fucking locked.

I press my knuckles against the glass, leaning in, and cup my hands around my face to kill the glare.

There’s nothing behind the doors. No bartender.

No bass line. No overpriced perfume bleeding through the vents.

Just overturned chairs, dark bottles lining the shelves like trophies, and a bar stocked with lies.

No Frank.

Not even a shadow.

My chest tightens, as heat starts rising fast—curling through my throat like smoke before the fire. He told me he was here and that he was busy. So why does it look like this place hasn’t seen a crowd in days?

The thought slams through me like a hit to the ribs, and suddenly everything inside me tips sideways.

My heart thunders, but it’s not panic this time. It’s rage.

He lied.

Not some casual omission, or a soft-edged sidestep or a clever half-truth—a flat-out, deliberate fucking lie.

I may not know where Steven is. I may not know who sent that photo or what the hell I’m about to walk into—but I know exactly what I feel.

Betrayal and fury.

They coil hot and sharp in my chest, winding tighter with every second I stand outside this empty fucking club, piecing together lies that should’ve never made it past me in the first place.

My phone buzzes in my hand, slicing through the static in my head like a blade to the spine.

I’m so goddamn sick of this game—sick of being dragged along by ghosts and threats that won’t show their face. But my thumb moves anyway, already unlocking the screen.

This time it isn’t a photo. It’s a video. There’s no caption. No message. Just grainy surveillance footage, frozen mid-frame. It has no timestamp, just static, shadows, and the promise of something worse.

A cold sweat breaks out across my shoulders, sliding down my spine as I tap it open. My pulse slams to a halt in my throat as my vision narrows until all I can see is the screen.

Please, God. Not again.