She pulls her hand away suddenly and I feel a flash of pain throughout my entire body, as if part of my body has been cut off.

‘We have to go to the library.’

‘We?’

Chapter 23: MIKKI – January 4th

The look on Crush’s face, that crazy hope in his eyes, scares me. He still doesn’t know why I’m trying to avoid being seen in public. I need to tell him something, even if it’s not the truth, so he understands that we can’t indiscreetly wander the streets of Boston. Maybe I should tell him I’m a fugitive. Technically, he did kill someone. Even if it was to protect me, that makes him a fugitive.

‘But first, I have to tell you something,’ I begin, wishing he were still holding my hand.

His skin on mine felt so comforting and natural. It actually put me at ease. I know Crush would never do anything to hurt me. Though I hardly know him, I’m pretty sure he’s the only person I can say that about, other than Meaghan.

Meaghan. I hope she hasn’t found the note yet. It’s been twenty-four hours since I left for the airport. By now, they’ll have called Rina to ask her if she knows where I might be. With my history of attempted suicide, they’ll search my room for a note or anything that might suggest where I’d go after the flight was canceled. I don’t like to worry my family, especially Meaghan, but the reasons I have for taking my life are still valid.

Crush grabs my hand and tilts his head as he waits for me to spill. ‘What do you have to tell me?’

I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to lie to you.’

‘Then don’t.’

I look up at him and, for the first time, I allow myself to take in his features: the vibrant green irises of his eyes, the long eyelashes, his chiseled cheekbones, the perfect slope of his nose, the symmetrical peaks of his top lip. It dawns on me that, except for the slope of my nose, which is still a bit crooked from the attack, all of those features are mirrored in me. My green eyes, long eyelashes, strong cheekbones, and the symmetrical bow of my lips. But looking like someone on the outside doesn’t mean you look like them on the inside.

If I tell Crush I’m going to L.A. to kill myself, he’ll probably take me to the nearest hospital. That’s what the average person thinks is the responsible thing to do. They have no idea what it’s like to be committed. They don’t know that my desperate desire not to be committed again is one of the things propelling me toward suicide.

‘First, let me tell you the small stuff.’ I pull his hand into my lap so I can stare at our hands clasped together as I speak. ‘I told you that I’m bipolar, but that pill you saw me taking yesterday wasn’t my medication. I’ve been off my meds for a couple of weeks now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to be free,’ I reply defensively. ‘I don’t want to just exist. Existing is not enough. I want to feel everything. I want to live my life my way, not the way everyone else thinks I should, suffocating in a cloud of psych meds. I want to breathe and not wonder if it’s my last breath of freedom. Is that too much to ask?’

He’s silent as he reaches for my face. The backs of his fingers are warm against my skin as he pushes a piece of hair out of my eyes. ‘You’re so afraid.’ He grabs my chin and gently turns my face toward him. ‘But I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not going to force you to take your meds or go home or anything like that. I’d never force you to do anything you don’t want to do. You believe me, don’t you?’ I nod and he flashes me a warm smile. ‘Then, can you tell me the real reason you’re going to L.A.?’

‘To kill myself,’ I say, holding my breath as I look into his eyes, awaiting his reaction.

His gaze falls. ‘I was afraid of that.’

‘I don’t want to lie to you.’ He lets go of my face and stands suddenly, leaving me with the painful ache of rejection. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To get the black box. We have to go to the library. I want to know what’s inside that box. I just . . . I have a feeling it will change everything.’ His gaze burns into me. ‘I hope it will change everything.’

*****

Though Crush called concierge and asked them to have a cab ready for us, I still pull my hood tightly over my head to cover as much of my face as possible. I decide not to reapply my makeup. After getting rid of all of my old pictures, I made sure to never again take a picture looking all fresh-faced and innocent. With my hood pulled tight and no makeup, I have a good chance of not being recognized.

We slide into the cab in front of the hotel and I pull my feet up onto the seat to hug my knees. It’s freezing out here and this cab is not much warmer.

‘You cold?’ Crush asks as the cab makes a sharp left on Park Plaza, pulling me toward him. He laughs as the inertia holds me against him. ‘I guess that’s a yes.’

I roll my eyes as I scoot back to my side of the seat. ‘You wish,’ I reply, my teeth chattering.

He smiles. ‘It would be my honor to keep you warm.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Why?’

The driver takes the curve onto St James Street and I hold onto the door handle to keep from sliding. ‘Because you’re making me feel weird.’

‘Weird? Like you may start discussing your toe jam at any moment or weird like you’re uncomfortable with this conversation?’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Both, and . . . weird like my insides are all tangled up.’

‘I know that kind of weird. I like that kind of weird.’

‘Of course you do.’

He smiles and my insides become even more knotted. The driver makes a right at Dartmouth then another quick left on Newbury, and I don’t bother fighting gravity. I allow myself to be pulled toward him and his expression is serious as he wraps his arm around my shoulder to keep me from sliding back. I hold back my tears as I lay my head on his shoulder and he lays a soft kiss on my forehead.

Ten seconds later, the cab pulls up in front of the McKim Building entrance on Dartmouth and I don’t want to get out. Reluctantly, I push myself up so Crush can pay the driver. Once we’re on the sidewalk, I’m feeling weird again, like I can’t look at him.

He places his gloved hand on the small of my back, then leans over and whispers in my ear. ‘I want to kiss you, but I want to do it when you’re least expecting it. Is that okay?’

I nod, pressing my lips together to suppress my grin. He plants another kiss on my temple and I try not to melt into the sidewalk. How sick is it that I love knowing he killed someone for me? I don’t know the answer to that question. All I know is that I’m feeling pretty high on Crush right now. I just hope I don’t crash any time soon. At least, not before that kiss.

The pavement in front of the library has been cleared and most of the snow is piled up around the curbs, street lamps, the steps leading to the library doors, and the concrete platforms holding up the statues on either side of the entrance. A pathway has been cleared down the center of the six steps and Crush grabs my hand as we ascend.

‘Watch your step. It could be icy.’

‘You could be icy.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

I shrug. ‘Just sticking up for the stairs. Somebody has to.’

There are three sets of glass entrance doors and he holds my hand tightly as he leads me toward the one in the center. Maintaining his grip, he uses his other hand to open the door for me. I enter first and he scurries ahead of me again to pull me farther inside, but I’m rooted in place.

‘Holy shit,’ I whisper as I stand in wonder of the entrance hall.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling, everything is covered in marble. On our left are a large bronze statue and a marble staircase leading up to another level. Directly in front of us is a marble staircase leading down through a marble archway into a vestibule, which, by the looks of it, is also covered in marble. On each side of the top of the staircase is a marble statue of a lion, each bearing a bronze dedication plaque.

‘This place is epic.’

Crush chuckles and I realize I said that aloud.

‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ I continue.

‘It’s a book lover’s paradise,’ he says with a proud look on his face.

‘Can we live here?’

‘Only if you do all the cooking.’

‘Fine by me, as long as you don’t mind eating muffin stumps for the rest of your life.’

He smiles and nods toward the staircase on our left. We climb the steps up to the mezzanine level and I pull him toward the marble railing so I can peer down on the entrance lobby from this level. The space is bursting at the seams with silence. If I get recognized and whisked away from this library today, it will have been worth it.

‘When was the last time you came here?’ I ask, ogling the mural on the wall opposite the railing.

‘A long time ago,’ he says, pointing at the mural. ‘This mural has been here since eighteen ninety-five. It’s a replica of a painting by a French painter whose name I can’t remember right now. But even the door in the center of the mural is a replica of the door in the painting.’

I follow him toward the archway on our left, trying not to roll my eyes. ‘Are you trying to avoid my question? How long has it been since you last came here?’

He sighs as we pass through the archway. ‘I haven’t been here since before I gave you the book?’

‘Why?’ I ask as he presses the call button for an elevator.

‘I used to come here almost every weekend with my grandfather before he died when I was ten. After he died, I didn’t have anyone to bring me. So, once I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license, this was one of the first places I visited.’ We step inside the elevator and he pauses to press the button for the third floor. ‘I saw the exhibit with the books my grandfather donated and there was no key in the display. That didn’t surprise me since his will said I could retrieve the key when I was eighteen. But . . . Jordan died a few months after that, and I never came back.’

We arrive on the third floor and the silence is even heavier now. I want to say something to lighten the mood, but all I can think is, That fucking sucks, and I’m sure he already knows that. When we enter the rare books lobby, I’m surprised to find that it looks like it hasn’t been updated since the fifties. The room is long and narrow, with oak study tables and card catalogs running the length of the space. There’s only one patron sitting at the far end of the row of tables. Midway down, a woman sits at a desk reading a hardbound book and I can’t help but smile. This is a place where books are treasured – books that hold the sweetly magical smell of history; books that crackle when you open them and sigh when you close them; books that weigh heavy in your hands, not just your heart.

‘Stay close to me and don’t touch anything,’ he says, pulling me toward a doorway that appears to lead into a very dark room. ‘There are surveillance cameras everywhere and you will be severely reprimanded if you touch something you’re not allowed to touch.’

We pass through the doorway and my breath catches in my chest. The room is dimly lit, probably to protect the books from UV damage. There are two levels of bookshelves surrounding the room, all enclosed in glass and dimly lit from within. A couple of glass cases in the center of the room display ancient books and manuscripts.

‘Many of the books in here are bound in animal skin.’ He lets go of my hand as he wanders toward the smaller display case on the other side of the room.

This gets me breathing again, and that’s when I smell it. It smells like the first time I opened up Black Box. My stomach clenches and suddenly the messenger bag I have strapped across my chest feels as if it’s holding lead bricks instead of a book and a wooden box.