Page 2 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

She glanced curiously at the book before allowing it to fall open to a page somewhere in the middle.

“‘He is about to walk away when suddenly he notices that his penis is lying on the sidewalk. It is about the size of a sawed-off broomstick. He picks it up nonchalantly and slings it under his arm.’” A grimace twisted Pepper’s lips as she read aloud. “What the hell, Chloe? Ew.Ew.”

I couldn’t help giggling. “I know. It’s a terrible book. But it’s, like, super famous for being terrible. You couldn’t even get a copy in the United States for fifty years after it was published. Not to buy from a bookstore anddefinitelynot to borrow from a public library.”

I could tell I had her interest. “And you found it here?” she asked. “In the basement?”

“Yep.” I took the book back and flipped it open to the last page. I tapped my finger on the small print:Imprenta de Mexico, 1940. “Unless I’m mistaken, this is one of the bootleg copies that circulated back in the book’s heyday. This company called Medusa Publishing printed them in Mexico and then smuggled them here. This book is probably worth a thousand bucks, even in this condition.”

“Ohhh.” Pepper nodded as though that made perfect sense. Which, considering how much she knew about my life, was true. “That’ll help a ton. New roof?”

“A down payment, if I’m lucky. Or I might just throw caution to the wind and get a dishwasher instead.” I tried not to dwell too much on the prospect of such luxury. No point getting my hopestoohigh. “I’ll have to wait and see how much this little guy nets me first…Oh, crap.Never mind.”

“What’s wrong?”

Both my expression and my spirits fell as I caught sight of a scribbled note in the margin at the end of the book. For all its obscenities,Tropic of Cancerends on a surprisingly sweet note:The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing through me—its past, its ancient soil, the changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about; its course is fixed.

There, in a scratchy hand, I could make out a message that some long-ago reader had left behind.

Good idea. I’ll meet you at our river when the sun is setting.

In a different hand, this one much more florid, the message continued.

When the sun is setting? But I thought The Sun Also Rises?

No. No more Hemingway. You promised.

“That’s cute,” Pepper said, reading over my shoulder. “Someone left notes.”

“It’snotcute.” I thumped the cover shut. “That’ll cut at least half off my sale price. Doesn’t anyone respect library property anymore?”

“Are you asking the woman who’s about to smuggle out a box of thirty-year-old Harlequins for her grandmother?”

“Good point.” I tucked the book back in my tote bag. Half a treasure was better than no treasure at all.

“So how do you want to play this?” Pepper asked. “If Gunderson finds out, it’ll mean your job, not mine. He can’t get rid of me. I’m the only one who knows how to work the clutch on the bookmobile.”

I ran through several scenarios in my head until I landed on the easiest one.

“It’ll be best for me to carry the box out like I’m adding it to the pile out back,” I said. “You just need to keep Gunderson distracted long enough for me to slip it under the bookmobile’s passenger seat. Then you can drop it off wherever you want on your rounds tomorrow.”

Pepper pulled a face. “That’s disappointing. No pulling the fire alarm? No secret handoffs in the break room? I thought you were supposed to be devious and resourceful.”

It was true. Iwasdevious and resourceful, but only because I hadno other choice. Necessity could drive a person to do strange things. Sometimes, it meant slapping on a bandanna and breathing in basement toxins for the sake of a paycheck. Other times, it meant petty not-exactly-theft of ancient, crumbling treasures that were being thrown awayanyway.

“It’s a box of dusty old books, not a Kandinsky,” I said. “Look, do you want my help or not?”

“Fine. Some fun you are.” Pepper rolled her eyes, but in an exaggerated way that I took to mean she understood.

The nice thing about Pepper was that she understood a lot of things: That I needed the money from the sale of that broken-down book more than I was willing to admit. That I’d liberate a dozen copies of a dozen broken-down books if it meant I could keep a roof over my family’s head for one more day.

Also that if there was one person she could count on to see her through, well,anything, it was Chloe Sampson.

A fixer. A general factotum. A drudge.

And, apparently, the proud new owner of a bootleg copy ofTropic of Cancer.

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