Page 86 of Apathy
Last night wasn’t one of those nights.
While Ash slept next to me in one of the guest rooms Danny sent us to after the scene with Kane, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d said.
The Kane I knew never looked so disheveled, so scared. Not even when Zane went missing. He hated looking anything less but perfect, and to see him so distraught made me think twice about everything he said.
Yeah, he was definitely drunk, but that didn’t diminish the fact that he knew something but was too scared to voice it out loud. I got the feeling he would’ve never said what he had if he was sober.
What bothered me even more was the fact that Ash seemed to be unmoved by Kane’s words, because I was fucking terrified. It bothered me to the point where my overactive imagination started coming up with all these different scenarios, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t know anything about our town.
I didn’t know anything about our families, so I did what I should’ve done a long time ago.
I followed the letter I received the other day, and instead of going to school, I headed straight to the library. I wasn’t missing much, if I was being entirely honest. I hated Fridays at school and skipping today was probably one of the best decisions I had made in a while.
I couldn’t shake this weird feeling in my stomach that had nothing to do with the deranged maniac running on our streets, but had everything to do with Ash. What did I really know about him? Yes, he was allegedly born here, and he told me what happened to his parents. But why did they come back? And why was he so calm when Kane went crazy last night?
I had a million questions and no answers. I knew that even if I talked to him, he wouldn’t tell me the truth. I also knew he cared about me, but I understood better than most people that every single one of us carried secrets we didn’t want others to know about.
But what was he hiding? And the most important question that came to my mind as I glanced at the gauze on my arm, hiding whatever that monster carved on me—did he know who did this? I couldn’t bring myself to fully look at the scarsheleft behind, changing the bandages as fast as possible whenever I needed to.
I didn’t want to think this way. I didn’t want to think that Ash had anything to do with the disappearances at night and all the deaths putting yet another stain on our town, but I was paranoid.
Every single person that passed next to me as I walked down the street toward the library could be a suspect, so why not Ash?
Wouldn’t it be ironic that the one person I started caring about turned out to be a deranged killer? I could already imagine more pitiful looks, and the whispers behind my back. I could already imagine the look on Dylan’s face, and the disapproval on my father’s.
Little Skylar Blackwood, in love with the murderer.
I shook my head, trying to rid myself of these thoughts. Ash wasn’t a killer. Yeah, he was an enigma, but he wasn’t a killer. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I started climbing up the stairs, toward the library entrance.
As much as I hated Winworth, I loved the architecture. Our ancestors came from Europe, and if you paid close attention to the older buildings, you would recognize Gothic and renaissance styles mixed with the modern.
The town library was a clear example of it, with its high, arched ceilings and stained-glass windows. Sometimes I imagined I was somewhere in Europe, exploring the books hidden in the old libraries, containing knowledge I could never even dream of.
Two gargoyles stood perched up high on the wall, on either side of the tall, wooden entrance door, as if they were guarding the building with all their might.
I never asked who designed these buildings, but whoever it was really knew what they were doing.
Maybe they were guarding what I came here to look for. Maybe I would finally have the answers I desperately needed. As I entered through the already open door, I turned right, heading toward the wide staircase leading to the first floor.
The library was split into three floors, where the first one housed more modern books, mostly fiction. The second one was mixed, where you could find some of the greatest books ever written and non-fiction ones. The third one was the one I needed to go to.
I was there once, back when I was finishing elementary school, when I needed to write a paper on Mother Teresa and our teacher wanted us to actually use books rather than the internet to do so. The smell of old books was the first thing that hit me when I came here for the first time, and up until two years ago, I used to spend most of my time here, borrowing more books than I could read.
I just loved the smell of them, and the hidden worlds they all contained.
“Eleara?” A feminine voice pulled me back from my daydreaming, and as I turned around, I saw a very familiar face. A face I haven’t seen in a very long time.
What did she just call me?
“Mrs. Montgomery?” I smiled at the old librarian. I couldn’t remember the exact day when I met her, but Marissa Montgomery was always a part of our library.
She must have been in her late sixties by now, but the graceful way with which she held herself made her look at least ten years younger. Her long, gray hair was pulled into some kind of chignon on top of her head, and the glasses I always used to see her with were perched high on her nose, their dark rim highlighting steel-blue eyes.
Mrs. Montgomery was in her usual outfit—black suit pants and beige shoes with white tips, and a red blouse buttoned all the way up, with the sleeves rolled at her elbows.
“My God,” she gasped when I came closer to her, pressing one hand to her mouth. With widening eyes, she scanned me from head to toe. What had me worried was the sudden paleness of her face.
“Mrs. Montgomery?” I looked around but none of the other workers were anywhere nearby. I didn’t want her to collapse in front of me.
