Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I zoom in more. He looks familiar. But I can’t place it.
It’s the eyes.
I squint my eyes, hovering in front of the screen. Who does he remind me of?
And then it hits me.
Cain.
41
Layla
These eyes.
They look so similar. Yet . . . Different. This boy gives a hollow stare back at me from the newspaper photo.
Sad.
Insecure.
Lost.
This can’t be Cain. My Cain is not the boy in this picture from years ago. It's just a coincidence.
Or . . .
I stand from the computer and make my way back to the librarian. She’s sorting through a stack of books in front of her. When I’m standing in front of her, she glances up, her nose wrinkling behind her glasses that are now back on her face.
“One more question.” I give her a small smile. I’m sure my endless questions are annoying her at this point, but I really don’t care.
I need to know.
With a small sigh, she closes the book. “Go ahead, ask your question.”
“Did the Abbotts have any more family in town? Say . . . a cousin?”
“Not that I know of.” Her lips form a straight line, and her eyes lift, trying to access a memory maybe. “Nope. I don’t remember any family. But then again, they were closed off. A strange bunch.” She goes back to the stack of books and whatever she was doing when I interrupted her.
Cain must be related to this boy. He has to be a cousin. Because although they look alike and have the same eyes, it cannot be Cain. The Cain Archer I know and have fallen for is a successful business owner.
He’s not this boy who died years ago.
The whole idea is ridiculous. How would one even—no. There’s no way a teenage boy would know how to fake his own death. That’s not something he could pull off. Yet, despite myself, I wonder.
Why would he have faked his own death?
I laugh, drawing a stare from the librarian. I need to calm down. I don’t need to get into hysterics in the middle of this library. Here I am, losing my cool, and that’s the last thing I need in the middle of investigating this story. And there is no reason to come up with crazy conspiracy theories about how he could do it.
It can’t be him.
It. Is. Not. Him.
Yet it feels like I just stumbled onto the truth.
I look around the old stone library. The smell of first edition books permeates the room. This building has probably been here for hundreds of years. The stone on the outside is weathered and—
My stomach bottoms out.
Our conversation on the way to Cape May comes back to me. His words ringing out the truth I so desperately want to deny.
“When I was young, my house was really bad. I used to leave but had nowhere to go, so I went to the library. Old stone building with a secret room. That’s where I first read Huxley’s Brave New World. That’s where I first dreamed of a paradise. One where I could be protected.”
The blood starts to pound in my veins, my heart beating fast as I gaze around the old room.
I feel dizzy.
My footsteps wobbly.
I head back toward the librarian. “Yes, dear?”
“I-I was wondering. Can you look up the reading history of patrons? Can you see the books checked out by North Abbott?”
It feels like there is a jackhammer pounding in my chest as I wait.
Her fingers hit the keyboard on the computer in front of her. “You’re lucky we updated the system a few years back.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you had come here a few years ago, I would have made you rummage through the old boxes in the attic.” She starts to scan the database. “Today is your lucky day.”
“You found him?”
“I did, and it seems the younger Abbott boy tended to check out the same book, over and over again.”
My ears hum with the blood rushing through them. “What book is that?”
“It seems he checked out Huxley’s Brave New World several times.”
The room begins to spin. I can feel bile crawling up my throat.
“Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale.”
I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. It feels like rocks are in my throat as I try to find my words to ask my next question. “Are there any secret alcoves in the library?”
She shakes her head. “No, not that I’m aware of, but—now that you mention it, Somerset was built around the time of the Revolutionary War. They say before the war broke out, this library was used for meetings. Can you imagine? You may be standing in a place where a rebellion meeting happened.” Now she’s smiling coyly at me. “You’re welcome to explore.”
“I might just do that. Thank you.” Moving back away from the desk, I start to walk around, searching for anything that could be useful.