Mad Love Read Free Page A

the table.
    He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
    “Because I can’t write your story. I’m not a writer. I’m just here to answer questions.”
    “You’re here because your destiny is to write my story.” He spoke quietly but with absolute confidence. “And we’re on a tight schedule so the sooner you read my notes, the better.” Then he walked out of the basement room. Just like that. Like he had given me an order and expected me to follow it.
    “Hey!” I called.
    “Those good-looking ones are always the most demanding,” Nessa Van Nuys said, shaking her head.
    “If I had a dollar for every crappy story I’ve been asked to read, I could wallpaper my house with them,” Cookie Sparrow said.
    “Hey!” I called again. I grabbed the envelope and ran out of the room, through the coffee shop, and up the stairs to the bookstore’s main floor. A line of women stood at the cash register, their arms filled with copies of The Greek Tycoon’s Wild Bride , On Holiday with a Swarthy Scoundrel , and Hunger of the Heart. I searched for the black hoodie, even ran out onto the scorching sidewalk, but no luck.
    “I had a reader try to give me a puppy once,” Cookie said when I’d gone back downstairs to get my purse. “It didn’t smell half as bad as that thing. What’s inside?”
    She was right. The strange odor came from the manila envelope. Nervous about what it might contain, I dumped its contents onto the table. A bunch of papers fell out—lined notebook paper, plain white paper, note cards, stationery, even a paper napkin. Each piece was covered with handwriting. I picked up a note card and read a few lines that described a woman’s long hair and the way it glowed when the sun shone through it. And how it was the same color as the honey she drizzled on her bread. I stopped reading because a dark feeling crept over me, like maybe the line would be followed by, “And then I chopped her into a million pieces,” or something equally disturbing.
    “What a mess,” Nessa Van Nuys said, poking a finger through the paper pile. “Well, this explains the smell.” She’d found a flattened can of Craig’s Clam Juice. “Yuck.”
    I turned the envelope over. “There’s no name or return address. What should I do?”
    “Whatever you do, don’t throw the notes away,” Cookie said. “They’re handwritten. They’re originals. You’ll get sued if you throw them away.”
    I glared at the pile. Great. Just great. The last thing my life needed was a lawsuit. But surely the can of clam juice could go, so I tossed it into a wastebasket. Then I slipped the notes back into the envelope, opened the shopping bag, and dumped the envelope inside. The scent of clams lingered in the air.
    “Don’t worry too much about that strange boy,” Cookie Sparrow said. “Your mother will know what to do with his notes. I’m sure you can rely on her.”
    If only.
    I slid my arms through my backpack purse straps and walked back upstairs, the basement’s coolness disappearing with each step. A girl was taking down the window display, peeling the hearts and cupids off the glass. “Thanks for coming,” Tom called as he plugged in an oscillating fan. “Be sure to say hi to your mom for me.”
    “Okay,” I said, watching as one of the paper cupids slipped from the girl’s fingers. Caught in the fan’s breeze, it lifted into the air, flew over the sales counter, and, for a brief moment, hovered in front of me like it was checking me out. Then, as the front door opened, it flew out of sight.

 

    Sweat tickled the back of my neck as I walked up First Avenue. Except for getting stuck with the stinky envelope, things had gone well at Elliott Bay Books. No one seemed to suspect the truth. Everyone got a signed book and a promise that the next one was on the way. “Keep the readers happy,” my mother always said. “Without the readers, where would we be?”
    Reader or not, that guy in the hoodie had sure been weird. I should have