Chapter 1: Devils in Disguise

Libby cursed as she stood outside the library doors, rummaging in her bag for the key ring she swore she’d snatched off her desk. It wasn’t in her bag, that much was obvious. The clunky ring was impossible to miss. It was littered with old loyalty program tabs from stores that’d closed over two decades ago, along with several keys that none of the staff knew which locks they belonged to anymore.

She threw a sharp glance over her shoulder. Her old Fiat was parked under a sprawling oak tree, and the gray van the library used for its Books on Wheels events was in a spot at the far end. They were the only vehicles in the parking lot.

So then why did it feel like someone was watching her? Why was she shaking so much?

She’d felt like this since June, just after the company retreat, and it was already almost October. Four months. Four months of feeling like someone was breathing down her neck and watching her from the shadows.

Resigning herself and cursing another time for good measure, Libby flung the doors open and jogged through the lobby, the overhead fans blowing her sandy brown locks back from her shoulders.

Go in, get out, make it quick.

The Elderbee library was a two-story building erected sometime in the late eighties. It’d been remodeled once, but it was already a decade overdue for another.

Every five or so rows, a small alarm light illuminated the aisles. They barely penetrated the gloom and only served to cast the floor in a milky hue that turned everything into a muted grayscale.

It only served to make the large building feel twice as large, twice as dark.

Remnants of the library’s after-hours event, a dour affair celebrating antiquated fiction, were still strewn about. Cocktail cups, tiny napkins, and leftover standees that discussed the works from various regions around the globe.

It was almost ten, and everyone, guests and employees, had already left for the night, leaving her to lock up on her own.

The bastards. Let’s just say she didn’t have any favorites at work.

This library had always given her the creeps after hours.

Even before she’d starting obsessing over the fact that she might have a stalker.

Surprise, surprise, the police had done nothing. She’d tried to explain her situation to the officer. How she felt like there were eyes on her at work, at the grocery store and even at home. When she couldn’t give a suspect description, he’d given her the look and then told her there was little they could do if they didn’t have any “tangibles.” The public stewards of Portland—not to be confused with the sprawling, identically named metropolis in Oregon—had sent a squad car to patrol her street for a few days. However, Maine law enforcement hadn’t spotted anyone and had ended up closing the case the following week. The officer who’d been in charge of her case had told her she should get out more and look into counseling.

Like she said, they’d done nothing.

Her desk was on the second floor, butted up against the wooden partition that doubled as a railing just off the top landing. She took the steps two at a time, needing to get this over with before her fried nerves burned her resolve to a crisp. The sooner she got out of here, the sooner she could lock herself in her car and circle the block multiple times until she didn’t see any headlights tailing her. Because wasn’t that just the best way to end the evening, every evening?

The keys weren’t at her desk.

She checked every drawer just to be sure, but they weren’t there. She turned, building up the courage to go and check the rear office, when a glint caught her eye.

The keyring in question was on the floor two rows down from where she stood. It was centered within a spotlit circle from an overhead alarm light.

Everything seized up all at once.

Her breathing stopped, and her skin felt too tight.

Had someone taken her keys and planted them there?

Would someone jump out the moment she got close?

She shook herself, knocking some sense back into her overactive thoughts. That was the last aisle she’d been in towards the end of the night. Children’s was just behind her workstation, and she’d had to put several books away that a toddler attending the event had pulled out in a surge of sugar-induced fury. The mother had been apologetic, and Libby hadn’t wanted to continue the interaction any longer than it’d already gone, and had waved her off with an encouraging smile and polite placations.

Most likely, Libby had dropped her keys there when she’d been cleaning up the aisle. Yes, that had to be it.

Shaking herself, she wiped her sweaty palms on her green corduroy pants, and forced steel into her spine. Her hand sank into her bag and closed around the gun she’d made herself buy last month, pulling it out and flipping the safety.

Just in case.

She crept towards the keyring, her feet quiet as she stepped across the carpeted floor. When she reached the head of the aisle, she quickly peered around the corner. The row was dim, the far end shrouded in complete darkness. She clicked on her flashlight keychain, braced, and shone it towards the end.

It was empty.

She released a tense breath and quickly squatted down to pick up her keys.

That moment of vulnerability was all it took.

A hard body tackled her to the ground, the air rushing from her lungs at the impact. The gun was wrenched out of her grasp, and a knee was shoved between her legs. They tucked both of her arms under her body and trapped them against her stomach where they were pinned and useless.

Libby whimpered as a hand fisted the hair at the base of her neck, bowing her back until her throat lifted off the floor.

“Please,” was all she could manage, her voice thinner than she’d ever heard it. She wanted to shout, wanted to snap out of it and fight back, but shock was gripping her in an iron vise.

“Please?” a man repeated in a low tone. At first, she didn’t recognize his voice. “How polite. Are you asking me to hurry this along, or are you inviting me to take my time?”

Her senses rushed back all at once, and she screamed, but only for a heartbeat. A thick wad of fabric was shoved into her open mouth. Before she could build up another cry, a length of cord was pulled taut across her face, snared between her molars, and fastened at the back of her head.

“Can’t have you distracting me with all that noise. Now behave and hold still.”

Tears welled thick in her throat as true fear saturated her veins. He was at least twice her size, and she couldn’t budge him an inch. She’d tried, was trying, but his heavy chest mashed her breasts against the floor, and he’d locked his legs around hers, keeping them immobile.

He kept her there, unmoving, his body silently forcing hers to submit. Her heart was pounding, her chest rising and falling so fast she thought she was going to pass out.

The man leaned down and dragged his tongue along the back of her neck. Libby cried out from behind the gag, trying to scream through her nose. Someone had to hear her, someone had to stop him before it was too late.

His hand came across the lower half of her face, trapping her wails inside. Another long-fingered hand was gripping her throat, choking her until her vision started to go black. What felt like an eternity later, he released her long enough so she could suck in a few ragged breaths before squeezing again. When he finally let her throat go the second time, she devolved into a coughing fit, wheezing as she struggled to regulate her breathing.

The scent of sandalwood and incense crashed into her nostrils. That was all it took. Recognition crashed into her like a freight train. She knew who this was. In fact, she’d seen him at the event a little over an hour ago, leaning against a wall and reading Nietzsche.

By conventional standards, he’d been handsome, with a strong jaw and flinty eyes that’d made the blood freeze in her veins the one time they’d made eye contact across the room during the panel reading.

The reading had been dull, and Libby had noticed his eyes had rarely left the pages of Beyond Good and Evil. He somehow fit in with these stuffy types despite the obvious disparity in breeding. Long legs, a bespoke suit. This man felt untouchable, someone who would never be interested in a girl from Iowa who’d grown up a mile from a pig farm, whose family grew potatoes to help take the edge off when times were hard.

She’d been cleaning up one of the metal cocktail tables when she’d felt a light tug, as if someone had come up behind her and briefly grasped a few strands of her hair. Pivoting on her heel, she’d expected the space behind her to be empty and confirm that it’d just been a hallucination.

Only, the Nietzsche man had been standing there, a faint smile playing at his lips.