Why hadn’t he come back to the library after their dinner? She thought they’d had a great time. She’d been careful. Guarded. She drummed the eraser side of a pencil on her desk, something she never did anymore. She had long since conquered every nervous habit she’d ever had, including fidgeting. The person she’d become on the outside wasn’t always the one she was on the inside. There was the one of sheer steel and then there was the woman inside, hiding, rolled up in a little ball, afraid to ever show herself again. But she had for a brief evening. One time. To Aleksei. She’d let her out, and now that woman wanted out again. She wanted freedom—with him.
Part of her wished he’d never come into the library. She would have remained asleep, like whichever princess in the fairy tale she could never remember—or she’d blocked out. She’d read them all to her sister. Every single one of the stories. She pushed the memory away before sorrow swamped her. She couldn’t go there. She’d drown.
“Ms. Foley?”
She smiled at Joan Miller. A sixteen-year-old girl who really could be mean as hell when she wanted to be or sweet as sugar when she needed something. Of course, she was never mean to Ms. Foley because, in spite of her age, Joan had already learned to read people and she’d marked Scarlet as someone to respect.
The door opened and a woman came into the library, catching her attention. She always looked. She had to. That was how she stayed alive. The woman was a stranger; she’d never been in the library before, at least not on Scarlet’s shift, and she was generally the one who worked the most hours.
This woman was beautiful. Unique. Unlike a single person who had ever entered. She was elegant, with sleek, black hair, shiny as a raven’s wing, just kissing her shoulders. She wore skinny jeans tucked into boots. Not just any boots, but boots that had to cost a good five hundred or up. They were leather, butter soft, and just as elegant as the woman, with several inches of heels, a tan color that matched her tight tank. The top stretched over generous breasts and emphasized a smaller waist and then showed off flared hips. Scarlet managed to catch all that in a single glance.
“Yes, Joan?” She kept her voice strictly neutral. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with a snippy child who could play mean girl in a heartbeat to some young girl in school.
Joan looked at her face for a moment, shrugged and turned away. “Never mind. It’s no big deal.”
Instantly, alarm skittered down Scarlet’s spine. Something in that offhand tone set off her radar. “Joan, look at me.” She poured enough authority into her voice that the girl turned in spite of the stiffness in her shoulders and back.
“Sometimes, even adults have bad days, and they screw up. I apologize. I was having a private pity party and wasn’t listening properly. Let’s start over, please. I really would like to hear what you have to say.”
Joan shook her head but remained standing in front of the desk. For the first time since Scarlet had known her—which was about eighteen months—the teen looked uncertain and on the verge of tears. She really was upset. Scarlet rose and moved around the desk to circle the teen with one arm and shield her as best she could from any others in the library. There weren’t that many up close to her desk, but still, no teenage girl wanted to be seen crying, especially one like Joan.
“Let’s go over to that table. It’s far more private.” It was in the shadow of two of the tallest stacks, where she could shelter the girl even more. “Sit down, Joan, and tell me what’s going on.”
“Are you sure you have time?” Joan sounded reluctant now that she had Scarlet’s full attention, but she did pull out a chair and drop into the seat.
Scarlet took the chair beside her, caging her in and, at the same time, shielding her body from any onlookers. From her position she could see out the window as well as the door, making certain everyone was safe.
“I have all the time in the world, Joan. Tell me what’s going on.” Scarlet kept her voice low and persuasive. She rarely tried to use her voice to influence the teenagers, other than to have them lower their voices and be respectful of the library and one another, but there was something about the way Joan was barely holding herself together that alarmed her.
Joan shook her head again, as if she would refuse, but Scarlet’s velvet-soft voice had slipped into her mind and already was pushing her to do as she was asked. “I want you to tell my brother none of this was his fault. He’ll blame himself. He always does, but I wanted him to go on the trip with Mom. I did. He shouldn’t miss out because I’m never good enough.”