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The second floor was his least favorite place to hang out, so I headed up the wide, slightly curved, carpeted staircase, trailing my fingers along the ornately decorated wooden railing as I went.

The library had actually been the home of Marshall Ginn Haverick, a philanthropist who’d donated his three hundred acres of ground to the city of Westport in his will in order to open a university here.

Most of the original house had been gutted and reconstructed over the years, but these stairs had remained throughout time.

I’d read that little tidbit of information on a plaque last year.

And I always felt as if I was touching pure history when I walked up these steps.

Passing by the plaque now, I headed to a couch hidden in the back of the stacks, pausing first to grab a book I knew the location of by heart.

The Lovely Bones was one of my most faithful rereads.

I went to it for comfort whenever life started to feel too big, even though nothing about the story was particularly comforting.

The young protagonist’s ghost told the story of her own death as she watched her family and killer continue on with their lives after she was raped and murdered.

But there was something about Susie Salmon that spoke to me.

Sometimes, I felt like a ghost here on this planet, like a part of me had died that afternoon when Gerald Sprout had first taken my innocence.

Now I just observed, rarely participated, and whenever I did get too close to actual life, I had to come back to death where everything was distant and peaceful again.

Settling onto the couch, I propped my backpack next to me and started in on the story, letting the words take me away from my worries until my phone buzzed with an incoming text message.

I paused to dig my phone from my backpack and read that my mother needed me to pick up Gates from Mrs. Bergamen’s again. I sent her a thumbs-up, put the phone down, and turned back to my story, only to blink when I tried to find my spot.

The page had been flipped. And not just one page either.

Not only that, but someone had highlighted a section of text on the new page it had fallen open to.

Squinting, I leaned closer to read the brief part of the story where Ruth Connors actually saw Susie’s ghost. And just as I read it, a cold chill wafted over the back of my neck.

Shuddering, I slammed the book shut and stuttered out an unsteady breath.

“Creepy,” I whispered under my breath.

No longer feeling warm and comfortable up here on my hidden couch, I grabbed my book bag, returned The Lovely Bones back to its spot on the shelf, and hurried down to the first level. Checking the time, I decided I might as well clock into work and relieve the shift before me twenty minutes early.

My coworker was glad to take off, and I was happy for something to do because he’d left a cart full of books to check in.

I was working my way through the last stack when a prickle of awareness heated my skin and caused me to look up just as Keene entered the front doors, flanked by half a dozen girls.

Not going to lie, it stung to see, even though I knew they were only his fellow study group members for one of his nursing classes. Their group always left piles of medical books on the tables to be shelved after they were done researching together.

But I swear I’d heard rumors Keene had slept with at least two of them, and the original Makayla herself was in the group. So I could only watch enviously, wondering which ones he’d put his hands on while he smiled and laughed and talked with the whole herd of them as they passed by my desk.

As if feeling my glare, he glanced over and gave me a haughty, questioning look, silently demanding to know what he’d done to piss me off this time. I sniffed and rolled my eyes bitterly, forcing my attention back to my books, which were on the cart now.

Wait, I hadn’t put them on the cart yet, had I?

Ah, geez. See. This was Keene’s fault. I always forgot everything I was doing whenever he was around. One day, he was going to make me forget my own dang name.

The bastard.

I couldn’t help but notice he took his harem up to the second level, making me glad I was no longer up there myself to listen to him flirt with every single one of them through their entire study session, and I plopped myself on a tall stool behind the counter, waiting for something else to do.

The occasional student or professor stopped by with questions—usually how to print something—or to check out a book, but the next hour passed with excruciating slowness, especially when I would hear laughter up on the second floor, which happened way too often.

But seriously, studying nursing shit couldn’t be that amusing, could it?

Oh, who was I kidding? Keene could make anything fun. Except when he was giving his attention to someone else . Then, life sucked.

Jealous and moody, I pulled my blank stationary and calligraphy pen from the depths of my book bag, and I drafted a new note from his mystery girl because I greedily wanted his attention back on me—even if he had no idea it was actually me.

When his gaggle of girls finally descended the staircase together, looking a little too happy and satisfied for my peace of mind, I was just sealing my letter inside its envelope and licking it closed. I narrowed my eyes at every single one who passed by.

Keene wasn’t among them, but he often stayed behind and studied longer after a group session, so I wasn’t all that surprised. He liked his library time just as much as I did.

After his girls left, I let my gaze stray upward, only to jump when he actually appeared at the top of the stairs. Gripping the banister I’d touched less than two hours before, he jogged down the steps and headed toward the bathrooms, whistling to himself the whole way.

As I watched him disappear inside, I looked up the staircase again.

I’d planned to give the note to Xander to pass along to him, but for some reason, I couldn’t wait that long. I craved his attention now.

Moving fast, I darted out from behind the counter and dashed toward the stairs.

Panting hard as I reached the second level, I glanced around at the empty group study tables until I found one with dozens of books scattered on top.

Recognizing his backpack among them, I hurried over and set down the envelope with my signature calligraphy letter facing upright on top of his bag.

Then I whisked myself back down the stairs and darted behind the safety of the checkout counter. When I saw the bathroom door open five seconds later, I turned away before I could see him emerge, and I pretended to rearrange the books on the cart.

His whistle filtered over to me as he started for the second floor and ascended the stairs. Only then did I bite my lip and glance up at his retreating back.

I knew I’d told him to stop looking for me in the note, but that was the last thing I actually wanted. Because I knew it was the last thing he’d do after receiving such an order, which was exactly why I’d given it.

A small part of me wanted him to find me.

But only if he liked what he found.