Read Online Between a Book and a Hard Place by Denise Swanson - Free Book Online
Authors: Denise Swanson
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city council meeting. Talk about bad déjà vu.
The library was housed in a redbrick mid-nineteenth-century Italianate building. Long, narrow two-story windows with crescent-moon stained-glass inserts stretched upward nearly to the roof. Keystones at the top of the arch gave the structure a look of permanent surprise. Facing the street, narrow slits marched across the top of the edifice, almost as if to provide snipers a location to repel an enemy attack.
I checked over my shoulder. Lucky for me, there were no adversaries in sight. Tuesday afternoon wasnât exactly prime shopping time, and the town square was completely deserted. Relieved that Iwasnât being observed, I darted into the alley separating the library from the movie theater.
After hurrying to the side door, I twisted the knob. As Dad had promised, it was unlocked. Slipping inside, I hastily closed the door behind me. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and as I waited, apprehension skittered along my nerves, tightening my shoulders.
Once I could see again, I discovered that I was in a short hallway. To my right was a storeroom and to my left was a staircase that I assumed led to a basement. I looked into the dark abyss and cringed. Ever since Iâd been accidentally locked in my grandmotherâs cellar, I was not fond of dank, subterranean spaces.
There were no sounds of activity coming from the single large room in the front of the building, and I deduced that there wasnât any remodeling going on today.
âDad,â I called out softly. âItâs Dev. Iâm here. Where are you?â
Silence.
âDad?â I lifted my voice.
Nothing.
A quiver of fear raised the hair at the back of my neck. What if the person whoâd killed Jett had also murdered my parents and was now lying in wait for me?
Peeking into the storage room, I saw that cobwebs covered the boxes on the shelves and an old oak worktable was thick with dust. It looked as if no one had been in here for quite some time. Evidently, the library reopening project hadnât made it to this area yet. I wondered what was holding up the work.
Backing out, I eyed the stairs. Venturing into a dark basement after receiving a call about a murder was something a naive young heroine in a Victoria Holt Gothic romance might do, but certainly not me. At least not without some lights and a weapon.
I searched for a switch near the top of the staircase.
Strike one. There wasnât anything on the wall but an old sign advising the staff to use caution when descending the steps.
Wishing I had brought along my trusty Maglite, which was strong enough to turn the midnightlike darkness into high-noon brightness, I settled for the flashlight app on my cell.
Now that I could see my surroundings, I scanned the area for a weapon.
Strike two. I didnât see anything I could use to defend myself. Why was it that libraries rarely had swords lying around?
Just as I turned toward the storeroom, thinking there might be something useful in there, I remembered that after our first investigation together, Jake had given me a pepper-spray gun. Heâd insisted that I keep the bright blue revolver with me at all times. I had thrown it into my purse, then promptly forgotten about it. Digging it out from beneath all the detritus that had settled on top of it, I tried to remember his instructions for its use, but all I could recall was
aim and squeeze the trigger.
I slung my purse strap across my body, and then with the cell in my left hand and the pepper-spray gun in the other, I crept down the stairs. I kept the light trained on the step in front of me and hoped that if there was a bad guyâor girlâwaiting for meat the bottom, my stealthy approach would give me an advantage.
With both hands occupied, I wasnât able to hang on to the railing, and as I put my weight on the next tread, I heard a sharp crack. Afraid I was about to plummet to my
The library was housed in a redbrick mid-nineteenth-century Italianate building. Long, narrow two-story windows with crescent-moon stained-glass inserts stretched upward nearly to the roof. Keystones at the top of the arch gave the structure a look of permanent surprise. Facing the street, narrow slits marched across the top of the edifice, almost as if to provide snipers a location to repel an enemy attack.
I checked over my shoulder. Lucky for me, there were no adversaries in sight. Tuesday afternoon wasnât exactly prime shopping time, and the town square was completely deserted. Relieved that Iwasnât being observed, I darted into the alley separating the library from the movie theater.
After hurrying to the side door, I twisted the knob. As Dad had promised, it was unlocked. Slipping inside, I hastily closed the door behind me. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and as I waited, apprehension skittered along my nerves, tightening my shoulders.
Once I could see again, I discovered that I was in a short hallway. To my right was a storeroom and to my left was a staircase that I assumed led to a basement. I looked into the dark abyss and cringed. Ever since Iâd been accidentally locked in my grandmotherâs cellar, I was not fond of dank, subterranean spaces.
There were no sounds of activity coming from the single large room in the front of the building, and I deduced that there wasnât any remodeling going on today.
âDad,â I called out softly. âItâs Dev. Iâm here. Where are you?â
Silence.
âDad?â I lifted my voice.
Nothing.
A quiver of fear raised the hair at the back of my neck. What if the person whoâd killed Jett had also murdered my parents and was now lying in wait for me?
Peeking into the storage room, I saw that cobwebs covered the boxes on the shelves and an old oak worktable was thick with dust. It looked as if no one had been in here for quite some time. Evidently, the library reopening project hadnât made it to this area yet. I wondered what was holding up the work.
Backing out, I eyed the stairs. Venturing into a dark basement after receiving a call about a murder was something a naive young heroine in a Victoria Holt Gothic romance might do, but certainly not me. At least not without some lights and a weapon.
I searched for a switch near the top of the staircase.
Strike one. There wasnât anything on the wall but an old sign advising the staff to use caution when descending the steps.
Wishing I had brought along my trusty Maglite, which was strong enough to turn the midnightlike darkness into high-noon brightness, I settled for the flashlight app on my cell.
Now that I could see my surroundings, I scanned the area for a weapon.
Strike two. I didnât see anything I could use to defend myself. Why was it that libraries rarely had swords lying around?
Just as I turned toward the storeroom, thinking there might be something useful in there, I remembered that after our first investigation together, Jake had given me a pepper-spray gun. Heâd insisted that I keep the bright blue revolver with me at all times. I had thrown it into my purse, then promptly forgotten about it. Digging it out from beneath all the detritus that had settled on top of it, I tried to remember his instructions for its use, but all I could recall was
aim and squeeze the trigger.
I slung my purse strap across my body, and then with the cell in my left hand and the pepper-spray gun in the other, I crept down the stairs. I kept the light trained on the step in front of me and hoped that if there was a bad guyâor girlâwaiting for meat the bottom, my stealthy approach would give me an advantage.
With both hands occupied, I wasnât able to hang on to the railing, and as I put my weight on the next tread, I heard a sharp crack. Afraid I was about to plummet to my
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