Page 87 of Blacklist

“It’s nice.” She delivers her verdict with conviction.

“Mostly compliments of Cyrus,” I say with a shrug. Not that she couldn’t have guessed that.

“Not these.” She trails a finger down the stack of novels on my desk. “These are yours.”

“How did you know?”

The joy in her answering laugh twangs an invisible string in my chest. “I’ve never seen Cyrus read a novel in my life.”

“This is your favorite.” she says, picking up the well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby I’d just been reading. She studies it for a moment, her eyes lingering on the call number taped on the spine. She flips it open and reads, “Property of Lincoln High School—is this a library book?”

“You caught me.” I drop onto the couch. If I’m going to be lectured, I might as will be comfortable “I stole a library book.”

“You stole more than one,” she murmurs, scanning the rest of the stack before continuing to page through Gatsby. Her eyebrows ratchet up with each page turned as she takes in the notes I’ve penciled into the margins. “And you wrote in it.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t stolen any Jane Austen,” I say.

“That’s a mistake,” she murmurs. “Maybe next time?”

“I don’t steal library books anymore,” I assure her.

“Just special ones, huh?”

“Those are my favorite,” I say. “I rechecked them out over and over again. No one ever saw the writing.”

“You could’ve bought them,” she says off-handedly. There’s a pause punctuated at last by Adair turning a horrified look on me. She’s just realized what she said. “I mean…”

“It’s cool,” I say her, feeling oddly exposed. “Libraries are free entertainment.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.” She means it, which goes a long way toward keeping me from reacting.

It’s not like she understands. It’s not like she’s ever had to borrow a book in her life.

“I didn’t really steal them. I couldn’t return them.” I find myself confessing—and I’m not sure why. I don’t owe her an explanation.

“Oh yeah?”

“I moved. Different school. I forgot to leave them with the foster family. It happened a lot. Pretty soon it just felt like they were mine. I didn’t have much else to my name.” Why the fuck am I telling her this? Adair doesn’t care about any of it. Why should she? It’s not like shitty things haven’t happened to her. So what if she judges me for taking a book or writing in one?

Adair doesn’t say anything for a minute, she just stares at the book in her hands.

“I think it belongs to you now,” she whispers.

“Yeah, but only because I stole it,” I say trying to sound like I’m teasing. She’d shown up here upset and I’d dumped a bucket of pathetic all over her. It’s no wonder that foster parents were constantly shipping me off to a new life. I’m such a joy to be around.

She doesn’t comment, instead she picks up a few more books. “You like American authors.” It’s true. There’s Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald in that stack. She puts them back down and shrugs. “To each his own.”

“I’m guessing it’s not just Austen for you?” I say based on her reaction. “You prefer Brits?”

“I’m a total Anglophile,” she admits. “I think that’s the reason I took up horseback riding. They’re always dashing off to visit someone on horseback or a hero is arriving on horseback. I think that’s what I imagine England is like still. Just people going off to the country over the weekend to ride horses, drink tea, and read in the library.”

“Maybe for people like you.” I can’t help but laugh at this visual. “I doubt people in the city ride horses very often.”

“Hey, I’ve seen police on horse back in New York,” she says. “Horses can be in a city.”

“That doesn’t mean that most New Yorkers have ridden a horse,” I inform her. “I haven’t.”

“You’ve never been on a horse?” Cynical, aloof Adair MacLaine is actually shocked at this.