Page 59 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
Unlike me, Caldwell belongs at our school, but I can’t shake the thought that he belongs here, too. His disheveled hair and wise energy fit perfectly in the dusty old place.
He stands behind the counter, cauldrons and herbs lined up behind him, and it’s plain to see—he’s awitch.
How could I have missed it?
“That’s a good compromise.” I place the book on the counter, reaching into my pocket for some crumpled bills.
Our fingers brush as I pay him, and I stop, inhaling softly. Holding hands is nothing new for us, but electricity sparks, and I’m forced to ignore it.
It’s all fake—and I may be a little too good at faking it because when he smiles, it feels real. The touch lingers for a moment. It’s not long enough. He pulls back, gently placing the book in a paper bag.
“There you go,” he says, the picture of professionalism. He slips in a few items I haven’t paid for: a wooden bookmark and a bar of chocolate. “Enjoy.”
I look around, humming. “Is there no tip jar? Your service has been immaculate. I want to make sure you’re compensated fairly.”
“No need to worry. The owner is a generous man.” Laughter peels from him as he comes out from behind the counter, his hand reaching for mine again.
“I already know that to be true.”
“You haven’t even seen the best part.”
If he happens to be the killer… this is where he kills me… and I paid him to do it, technically! If he doesn’t, Margaux will do it—she’ll be pissed at me for coming without telling her.
He leads me up a set of wooden spiralstairs. I think over my regrets, and, despite my disinterest in God, I try to remember a single prayer.
The only thing I can remember isParadise By the Dashboard Light. That won’t do.
He digs into his pockets, rummaging until he finds what he’s looking for…
Keys. They jingle before he slips them into the lock. The old wooden door opens with a click.
He steps inside, but I linger in the doorway, hoping I’ll have time to flee the shop before he catches me. Vampires may be fast, but as far as I know, witches aren’t.
I may be able to make it out alive, and with the proof, Margaux needs to finish the job.
But what if I’mwrong? The thought nags at the back of my mind. I was wrong about him being a vampire. Do I know anything about Caldwell at all?
He flicks on a light. I peer in nervously, expecting to see what will bring my end. A room of hungry vampires. A chainsaw? No. Caldwell doesn’t seem like the chainsaw type. Maybe a single dagger. That seems more like him—it’s classic.
What I see is nowhere near as sinister. A little apartment comes into view—reminiscent of Poppy’s. It’s even more cluttered, with dust on the shelves and sewing projects strewn about.
The sitting room is small, combined with a kitchen, and in the corner, there’s a tiny, dusty piano. Sunlight leaks into the room in rainbows, reflecting from crystals in the window.
After a moment of hesitation, I step inside, watching Caldwell. “Is this where you live?”
“Not anymore. This is where my mother lived and where I spent my summers. I haven’t had the heart to cleanit out yet.” He lets out a slow, sad sigh. “My room is that way.” He nods to the long corridor.
“I get what you mean. I haven’t—” I almost tell him about Poppy. It nearly comes out that I haven’t even driven past her street since she died. “I mean to say, it’s beautiful. I guess vintage books aren’t the only trinkets she collected.”
Little knickknacks and art pieces litter the space to prove that.
He shakes his head. “She was a very whimsical woman. It wasn’t about the age of the pieces; it was how unique they were. Collections were her favorite form of creative expression. I think that’s why she loved the shop so much. She got to fill it with the little things she loved, but… I don’t have the same eye.”
“She wouldn’t want you to run it the way she did,” I say. “You’re meant to run it likeyou. Being you is enough. Fill the space with classic horror and… maybe a nice rack of wine. Wine goes well with books.”
Our eyes lock. Something like understanding flows between us. I can relate to pressure from parents better than most. I’m here to save Poppy, but when I think of my parents, I wonder if any part of me wants to run away from them—into the world of vampires and witches—running to their greatest fear.
I don’t imagine his mother applied the same pressure, but a soothing energy flows between us.
