Page 23 of Moth
Chapter Five
It’s amazing what a shower can do. Soothe aching muscles, and wash away the dirt and grime left by a stranger’s groping fingertips. Lies, too. The spray of water even disguises the tears spilling from my eyes, and for one brief second, all my worries disappear into a wad of terry cloth and soap. Once the water shuts off, however, they find me again.
The second I step into a towel, the ping of my cell phone becomes a chilling reminder of the hell my life has become. My hand shakes as I snatch the device from the counter where I left it. The screen flashes with a predictable message from Branden.Good morning. Text when you’re awake.I miss your smile.
But there’s another lurking beneath his from a number I don’t recognize.Please, Hannah. Lexi deserves justice. Please call me.
I block that number without a second thought and change into a sweater and jeans. When I enter my living room, my phone lights up again, a text message from Mara this time.Missed you last night!Wanna go out tonight?
I don’t answer. Instead, I leave my building and head to the Paper Crane. It’s still boarded up, the broken glass replaced with plywood. A crude, handwritten sign on the door proclaimsClosed indefinitely,with a list of nearby bookstores to visit instead.
Because even in his own dire straits, Mr. Zhang still can’t ignore the quest for a good book.
Rather than obey the sign, I cut around to the side alley and approach a door I’ve only ever entered through on my very first day when I came to interview for the job. I knock once to silence. Then again.
It’s chilly out despite the sun blazing down. I’m forced to wrap my arms around myself as I pace the narrow space before the door. Finally, its hinges squeal as it’s cautiously opened from the inside. “What do you want?” A pair of wary eyes peeks out from the thinnest crack.
“Here.” I reach into my bag and withdraw a battered envelope. “It’s probably not much, all things considered, but it should be enough to at least help replace some of the stock. Here. Take it.”
He doesn’t. “You should leave.” The thin crack vanishes as the door slams shut.
I watch the envelope of money tremble over the filthy concrete below as my hand wavers. “I want to work. I can pick up trash. Whatever you need,” I say to the silence. “I… I need to work.”
The tremble of desperation in my voice can’t be faked. Hours in the bookstore have become a welcome escape for me. Otherwise, nothing prevents me from sitting in my apartment and staring into space as Branden stares back.
“Please…”
I don’t know how much time passes before those rusty hinges squeal again, and someone gingerly pries the money from my grasp.
“You’re a good girl.” Mr. Zhang sighs as he opens the envelope and starts to count the assorted bills inside. “Too good. You want to work?” He jerks his chin toward the front of the shop. “Go in, and you start fixing up. You’re right, this isn’t much…” He pockets the money, but then his lips part in a quick, warm grin before I can truly feel any guilt. “But it’s enough for the window, at least. Here. Go.”
He fishes something else from his pocket and tosses it to me. I barely manage to catch the shop keys. “They’re spares,” he says. “You can help me organize everything for the insurance adjusters when you have the time.”
I nod, fighting a grin. “You’ve got it.”
When I circle back around to the main street and duck beneath a lazily hung string of caution tape, I find that the inside of the shop isn’t much better than the day the damage was inflicted. Sighing, I toss my bag behind the counter, open the utility closet, and set to work.
Some of the books are damaged beyond salvation, but I can’t bear to throw them away. Instead, I set them aside in a careful stack near the door that soon towers over the smaller pile of books worth selling.
Broken glass litters nearly every surface, and I don’t have a chance in hell of moving any of the heavier shelves by myself. Still, it feels good to help insomeway.
With diligent effort and the aid of a broom, little by little, some semblance of peace begins to rebuild itself.
“Hey.” I glance up from a dusty volume of Dickinson’s complete works to find Mr. Zhang standing before me. He’s wearing his gray bowler hat and maroon sweater. “Time to go,” he says. “You did good.” He eyes the neatly swept floors and stacks of books scattered throughout with a thoughtful shrug. “Help yourself to something to read tonight. You’ve earned it.”
Once he leaves, I stand from my crouched position beside one of the damaged shelves and stretch out the cramped muscles in my legs. Darkness casts swaths of shadows over the majority of the shop, and it almost resembles some secret stash of forgotten tomes. The mainstream novels on the central display are the dusty histories of some lost king or queen, their glossy covers ageless in the twilight.
It’s the perfect atmosphere to write, and my heart pangs for my journal. Luckily, I spy a pile of printer paper that I can make do with, so I circle around the counter for my bag on the hunt for a pen. I’ve barely touched the fabric when the bell above the door sounds, catching my attention.
“Sorry,” I say, “we’re closed.”
The intruder’s smell reaches me first—coconut—before my eyes find him slouched against the entrance. I lunge for the nearest light switch and flick it on, throwing his body in stark relief.
“I thought you’d wised up,rabbit.”There’s a rough quality to his voice that rides my spine in an unsettling thrill. Amusement? “Yet here you are, still hopping around.”
“You’re trespassing,” I croak, still toeing the threshold of the dingy back room where we keep new books along with outdated computer equipment and a few plastic trash bags full of broken glass waiting to be taken to the dump.
“I’m protecting my investment,” he replies on a sigh. “Zhang’s debt didn’t magically pay itself. For all intents and purposes, I own this place.”
