Jeraline's Alley by Becca C. Smith

Author:Becca C. Smith [Smith, Becca C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Frog Publishing
Published: 2021-01-15T05:00:00+00:00

Honestly, as weird as it sounded, placing books back in their proper spot was one of my absolute favorite tasks working at the bookstore. There was something so calming about escaping into the stacks surrounded by millions of characters and worlds that were more real to me than my own reality. And setting them where they were meant to be, where they were meant to be found by the perfect reader, made me feel like I was a part of something greater. It made me feel like I had a purpose.

It was magical.

As I pushed the cart around to the front to travel down another row of shelves, I caught Josh glancing at me from the counter, and in a moment of spontaneity and joy at what I was doing, I smiled at him.

The smile was returned, and a rush of giddiness flowed through me.

My head was full of dreamy thoughts until they screeched to a halt when I saw who was at the end of the aisle.

A police officer.

And he was coming my way.

I spun on my feet and dove behind a stray bookshelf that walled off a cozy reading nook. Poking my head out to see what the officer would do, luckily he hadn’t noticed my leap.

What was I doing?

Had I really jumped behind a bookshelf to avoid an officer of the law? I couldn’t help it though. Terror had replaced my blood at this point, because it was the only thing that pumped through my veins.

From the cover of my spying spot, I watched the cop pull out some kind of paper or picture from his wallet and show it to Rachel, who arrived at his side.

I didn’t like the gleam in Rachel’s eyes as she called out, “Jeraline?”

I shrunk back and squeezed my hands in panic. Dropping to the floor, I crawled down the opposite aisle until I found another good spot to hide. The mystery section, more specifically, three rows of Agatha Christie books. If Hercule Poirot couldn’t save me, I didn’t know who could.

But should I be saved?

I murdered a man, and this officer was simply doing his job. Why was I hiding? Why was I avoiding my punishment?

Speaking of the man, Hercule Poirot himself appeared next to me, standing over me like a pillar of judgment. He was older, from the ’20s era, three-piece suit.

The only difference being that he stared down at me with disappointment, shaking his head. “Really, Jeraline, this is very unbecoming of you. If this officer is a good detective, you will be caught and brought in for an accounting of your actions right away. Hiding in these . . . stacks . . . won’t help you.”

Guilt replaced fear, but then flipped right back to terror as I tried to ignore him and his stupid truthful words.

Rachel walked by without seeing me. “Where is that girl?”

That was too close.

Crawling down another row of stacks, Poirot followed me with more glares of disappointment. “This only makes you look guilty.”

“I am guilty,” I shot back.

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