Page 26 of Battle of the Bookstores

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The next morningis Saturday, which means it’s time for my inaugural meeting of the Literary Collective.

Today’s selection is a literary thriller about a small-town sheriff who’s secretly a serial killer investigating his own crimes. What makes it special is the spare, almost bleak prose, so devoid of emotion that it invites the reader to use their imagination to embroider events, heightening the sense of terror unfolding on the pages.

I loved it. (And so did PAW. She blurbed it.)

Judging by the discussion, so did many of our readers. About two dozen people attend, many of them familiar faces, though several have brought friends. There’s also a group of five middle-aged women wearing matching sparkly pink shirts. I’m pretty sure they’re in the wrong place, but it’s too late to let them know.

We’re discussing the main character, and Marc Stapleton—a fifty-something regular with a bushy brown beard—raises his hand. “I know the sheriff is a murderer, but experiencing the story through his eyes turns everything upside down. I started to doubt my own judgments about morality.”

“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Other thoughts from the group about the main character?”

In the back of the room, one of the women in pink raises her hand. “Did anyone else think he was kind of hot?”

Two people turn to stare at her, horrified. Georgia, who’s sitting in the front row to support me, stifles a smile.

“Well,” I say, my cheeks heating with embarrassment, “he murdered twenty-three people—”

“I could have changed him,” the woman sitting next to her says, and the women in her group dissolve into giggles.

The other customers shift their weight, clearly uncomfortable. I try to keep us on track, leading the discussion back into less unhinged territory, but the women in pinkcontinue with the bizarre interjections. Georgia takes note of my panicked expression and slips to the back row. As one of my regulars talks about how the flashback scenes to the killer’s past build compassion for him, I overhear Georgia whispering to the women—introducing herself, asking where they’re from. Blessedly, this distracts them.

The rest of us carry on, but I’m having trouble concentrating. Then I hear one of the women whisper, “A bookseller over at Happy Endings told us about this, and we thought it would be fun to branch out of our usual genres.”

Ryan. He sent them to deliberately ruin my event.

My embarrassment flames into anger. Hands clenched into fists, I stand and head over to Georgia, whispering in her ear, “I’ll be right back—keep going.”

She nods, a confused look on her face, as I slip outside and past Beans, storming into Happy Endings, scanning the place for a giant man in a blah-colored cardigan with his hair flopped seductively over his eyes.

But when I get a few feet into the store, I stop short.

The place is a disaster. Overflowing shelves of various colors and styles fill the room; more books are stacked on the floor in messy piles. Mismatched chairs are wedged into every corner, with books spread face down over the arms (broken spines! I cringe). The entire back wall is ripped down to the studs, and the floor is partially removed in one corner, which contributes to the madhouse vibes. A candle is burning somewhere in the back, a floral scent that makes my throat itch—and gives me instant anxiety. An open flame around books?

Claustrophobia hits me in a wave. It’s too much like our apartment growing up. When I came home to help Georgiaafter the accident, the place was a safety hazard: spoiled food in the fridge, trash overflowing, junk everywhere. It took a week of decluttering and cleaning before Georgia could navigate her wheelchair from room to room.

My chest tightens, my breath coming in short, fast bursts.

“Can I help…” a voice calls.

Ryan. His smile drops when he spots me. “Oh. It’s you.”

My frustration flares again, and I march toward him, fighting the aggravating sensation that I’m shrinking as my eyes are forced up—way up—to meet his. He’s holding a grayish-white cat in his arms.

As I near him, I see a button on his lanyard that reads,It’s Not Smut, It’s Cliterature, and my face flushes.

“We said no sabotage!” I say.

He looks bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“Those women you sent over to ruin my event! They’re asking ridiculous questions. ‘Did anyone else think the serial killer was hot?’ Complete lack of social propriety, no respect for the gravity of this novel.”

Slowly, understanding dawns on his face. “Oh. The Sluts.”

“Huh?”

“Five middle-aged women in matching pink T-shirts?”

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