Page 9 of Booked for Theft

“We’ll talk about it while we eat,” I promised. While our home didn’t have eyes and ears in the walls, I held more than a few doubts. Bradley’s father sent numerous employees of his security firm to check for bugs—and they swept once a week to be certain nothing had been added. Then, in an effort to keep the place secure, we had cameras and microphones installed to catch anyone attempting to install monitoring equipment.

Thus far, the garage had been targeted, something my dash cam had caught and recorded, as the individual installing the bugs had needed to get within the vehicle’s five foot range. The motion detector had activated, the dash camera had turned on, and we’d gotten a video of the entire installation process.

We kept the system hooked up to a portable battery capable of lasting for three days before it needed to be charged, and Bradley handled making certain our vehicles were monitored when we weren’t with them.

His recorded around the clock, and we used mine to determine if there was reason to check his footage with extra care.

I suspected our conversations in the garage did a good job of boring anyone listening in on us. When we weren’t flirting, we discussed engagement party plans—and the possibility of moving up the timeline so we could get on with the rest of our lives. We’d had a few heated discussions on when and how many children we wanted, making it clear we couldn’t decide if we wanted three, four, or five future librarians in our flock. I’d suggested six once, and he’d spent the entire trip to our condo muttering about pregnancy hormones and the inevitable death of the entire universe.

Once safely inside our home, I locked the door, kicked off my shoes, freed my feet from my socks, and made use of the bin we kept in our entry cabinet to stash them until we did the laundry again, and said, “Can you get your laptop, please? There’s something I want us to watch while we’re having supper.”

“The older one or the new one?” he asked.

I reached into the depths of my purse and pulled out the memory stick. “The old one. I’m in a vintage mood after receiving such lovely books today.”

“Vintage it is. Should I dig out the vinyl player and put on some music?”

“Absolutely.”

The record player had been my idea; when he turned it on in the entry, it was impossible to hear anything going on in our kitchen or dining room from the door. He took the hint, went to the cabinet we used to stash our keys, my purses, and our shoes. He kept several records along with the player inside, which he set on the surface, plugged in, and turned on. Once classical music played, the kind he enjoyed performing on his grand piano, he headed for our dining room. “What’s going on?”

“Senator Thaddens hid a memory stick in his bathroom, and he was being monitored. The phone was recording him for certain, but judging from his collection of books, the walls in his home have eyes and ears.”

“Ah.” Bradley sighed. “I wondered if that was the case. The politicians have been in a mood lately—a quiet, reclusive mood.”

Following my recovery and return to the real world, a lot had changed. In some ways, the election campaigns had taken a somber, quiet tone. Somehow, my name kept cropping up with all the candidates, as if the media worked to make certain nobody forgot about my existence.

I questioned that, too.

Why remember me? I’d expected news coverage upon escaping from captivity. Senator Westonhaus had showered me with praise for my bravery and saving his life, as had President Castillo. The other candidates likewise took the same course, taking care to echo the President of the United States whenever he spoke my name.

It had been two blissful weeks since I’d gotten significant mention in the press, but I expected that to change once the latest donations were processed by the library. President Castillo had picked up the public services cause, taking care to encourage the wealthy to seek out their local libraries and give resources and tools so that all Americans could be gainfully employed and appropriately educated.

“This is going to put me in the limelight again,” I complained.

“I know. And I think I know why it’s been happening so much.”

“Oh? I haven’t a clue. I mean, I get it. Americans love heroics. I’m probably the only person who hasn’t offended somebody just from breathing lately. I’m unaffiliated!” I’d learned my lesson early on; the instant I picked a side, I would be stuck with that side for life, so I had forgone picking a specific party for most elections, instead opting to cast my vote during the final stages of the election cycle. “Did you know that those who are unaffiliated used to be called independents?” I asked.

I’d learned about that gem when digging through the old historical records at the library.

“I did know that. My mother told me about it. Did you know there hasn’t been an unaffiliated candidate in over a hundred years?”

I shook my head. “I did know that the independents changed their name to unaffiliated at least a hundred and fifty years ago. That’s also when aptitude became particularly important.”

“So, mistakes were made,” Bradley announced.

As we had a tendency of making such claims at least once a day, I nodded my agreement. “What’s today’s flavor of mistake?”

“My mother is your attorney, and she’s had power of attorney rights over all elements of your life since you signed the contract with me. She still has those rights, and she did something rather sneaky.”

I raised a brow. “Did she process a marriage certificate for us without informing us? That’s the kind of sneaky I can get behind right now. I am dreading the engagement party and would appreciate moving straight to happily married.”

“I wish. If she’d done that, we wouldn’t have to deal with so much bullshit. I am also regretting having once had interest in an elaborate party. I’m okay with admitting I was wrong.” Bradley herded me to the dining room table, grabbed two different takeout containers, and placed them in front of my normal seat. “I am expecting my librarian to eat every bite. Only then will she get dessert—and I ordered from elsewhere to make sure she has the perfect dessert tonight.”

I read between the lines: whatever Bradley’s mother had done stressed him to the point he intended to eat his feelings, and he liked his feelings having liquor inside the dessert in just enough volume to take the edge off.

The bakery down the street made a variety of different treats absolutely slathered in liquor. The tiramisu was his favorite while I had a tendency to gravitate towards the rum balls. “Are we even going to be sober enough to make it to the candles and tub portion of our evening?”