Read Online The Hidden Library by Heather Lyons - Free Book Online

piece of a super computer that was programmed to determine the meaning of life. It was surprisingly cooperative with my request once I told it my purpose, and seemed to run just fine without the small chip I took.”
    “The computer talked to you?”
    “Actually, it did. We didn’t chat long as, you know, I wasn’t supposed to be there or anything, but it didn’t even blink an eye when I told it there were many universes.”
    I hope he’s being metaphorical when he talks about a computer blinking. Truthfully, modern technology mystifies and unnerves me; to know that there is a talking computer that searches to solve lofty questions that surely people of all Timelines have sought answers for? I shudder softly. “Did it ever find what it sought?”
    His eyes sparkle in the dim candlelight. “You mean—to the meaning of life?” I nod, and he says, “Well, yeah, I guess. Only, it doesn’t really make sense.”
    “To you, perhaps.”
    Once he explains that, according to this particular Timeline, the answer to the mysteries of life, the universe, and everything else comes down to an even number and nothing else, I find I must agree with him. Although, wouldn’t Wonderland approve of that absurd yet mathematically attractive answer?
    Once I’m done chuckling, I ask, “What was the catalyst for your Timeline? I don’t think I’ve yet to learn what it is.”
    The humor we’ve just shared slowly eases from his face. “It wasn’t anything exciting.” He pauses, then says, almost as if I’m forcibly extracting the answer from him, “Just a needle.”
    I’m a bit disappointed. Finn’s stories are, from what I can ascertain, quite popular—and the catalyst ends up being nothing more than a needle? “A sewing needle?”
    He nods, but offers nothing else. Charged, uneasy silence fills the space between us. Manners dictate I let the subject rest. He is clearly uncomfortable with discussion of said needle, and it is not as if I am wholly unaware of his overall yet mysterious discomfort surrounding his past. He has been so forthcoming and generous with details of his life, all excepting his childhood. For a moment, I am ready to let the matter go, but then . . . then I remind myself that this is not just a colleague. This is not an acquaintance. This is a man I have let into my heart, and has allowed me access into his as well.
    I want to know him, all of him: good and bad and all that lies in between. And in return, I want him to know and feel the same way toward me.
    I want the life I dreamed of last night.
    I prod softly. “What is the significance of such a catalyst?”
    Long seconds tick by, leaving me sorely regretting how I blocked him at every turn for months, holding him at arms’ length whenever he inquired about my past. I should have trusted him, known that he would hold my pain and past and fears and experiences gently in his hands and do nothing more than simply support me. I ache to do the same for him.
    I am on the verge of offering a long-overdue apology when he once more clears his throat. “It was used to make a pact. You know, the kind that requires blood?”
    My hand slips to his knee and squeezes. “Your blood?”
    His sigh is barely voiced. “Mine and another’s.”
    I think back to the call he took yesterday, the one that left him on edge and distant for much of the day. “Tom’s?”
    He doesn’t look at me when he answers in the affirmative. And I’m taken aback, because there’s anger there, and, if I’m not mistaken, disillusionment, too.
    “Alice, I . . .” He shakes his head and focuses instead on our hands rather than my face. “I don’t know how much you know about my history with Sawyer, but—”
    “Nothing,” I quickly assure him. “And, Finn, I apologize if I am overstepping my bounds. I was just curious about—”
    He takes my hand. There’s a vulnerability clouding his eyes that until today I had yet to see before on this normally confident man. “No. It’s