Blood In The Library

Words in red ran across a rounded screen, resembling a children's toy train. Above it, a man in a navy-blue blazer with a garish yellow tie and a laptop in front of him reads from the screen.

"As of April 29, 2023, two children, both girls aged 8 to 11, were killed by candy discovered in library books at the Little Whaler Library. Both the librarian and the assistant have been taken into police custody and are undergoing questioning. The police report that the candy was not commercially manufactured, and they suspect it was homemade. Ricin was found in the candy wrappers."

Reva Smith's home is not her favorite, but she can reluctantly admit that the kitchen is quite nice. She sits by the kitchen counter, with a cup of coffee in front of her. She takes a large, fiery gulp, unfazed by the burning sensation in her throat. Reva has always preferred her coffee scalding hot.

Reva Smith has two daughters, both bearing a striking resemblance to her. Maggie is 9 years old, about to turn 10, while the other, Meralda, is 21 and attending university. Their home is serene and domestic.

Today is a beautiful day, signifying that it's a Sunday. The time is 9:00 am, and Reva anticipates a call from Meralda. She eagerly awaits the phone call. After Maggie's toast pops up with a ding, the phone rings once, twice, and Reva smiles.

The Board Room has one single large table in its middle. The chairs are made of black, glossy metal, and from them lead stairs in quick succession to the rest of the floor. The table is, in essence, in a pit.

At this table sits Inspector Lewis. He has bags under his dull gray eyes and pale skin that seems to get paler every passing day. We cannot blame him. After all, this is Little Whaler Town, and the sun never seems to shine. It is hidden in the sky, under a blanket of cloud.

"We can't figure out if the killer has a pattern. The deaths of both victims are two months apart. And that shoddy library has no record of who gets in or out. I swear..."

A few floors above Lewis' steaming head sits Detective Nelson at a cheap plastic table. She ignores the way the cheap plastic creaks when she leans back on the equally cheap plastic chair. There are earphones in her ears, and she is listening to a recording of Lana Colt insisting that she wasn't being irresponsible by not taking out poisoned candy.

"First off, it was paper-thin. If you want anyone to scan dozens of books looking for candy, it won't work..."

Nelson tunes it out. She knows how it goes.

Opening a book is hazardous.

In front of her is a suspect list—the librarian, her assistant, and a few sketches of people the assistant claimed he had seen. She sets her eyes on a particularly pretty one.

Down below, she knows the pathologists are poring over pictures of the girls' pale, frail bodies, too white in the glow of a tube light above their bodies. She knows that they are rotting in their graves. She knows that killers don't just stop. And she knows that there will be more to come. She sips her coffee.

It is dark outside. Children dash around in the skins of monsters and princesses, chocolate rustling in their little pumpkin bags. There is delighted screaming and the pattering of sneakered feet on the pavements and the distinctive voices of half-charmed, half-worried parents.

Reva sits in her Honda Prius and gives her daughter sets of instructions she knows she will follow. Maggie is smart. Walk in groups, don't let anyone take you in. If you're in trouble, search for a woman with a child for help.

Maggie is excited. She bounces along, away from her mother, who looks on until she disappears. Maggie has a phone with her, and she knows she will use it if necessary.

Reva sits there, not knowing what to do. She flips the radio on and off, listening to some new-age rock with half-hearted interest. She sits and looks at the navy-blue sky and all its stars like holes poked into dark packaging. She shuts her eyes and lets herself drift.

Maggie stands in front of a heavy oak door that has pumpkin stickers on it. It is dusty, and the doorknob is golden and shiny in the streetlight. Someone puts their finger on the doorbell. They wait, but no one opens the door. The other children go away, but Maggie waits a little longer, very patient, and turns when nobody appears.

"Just a minute, dearie..." says the old lady at the door. She has white wispy hair, and her feet are in sandals. She takes a thin wafer packet out of a little jack-o-lantern bucket and holds it in front of Maggie's face expectantly.

"Trick or treat," says Maggie. She smiles. The candy drops into her bag, a small rustle of plastic.

She turns and goes back to her herd of sheep.

It is January. It is cold in Little Whaler Town, and their neighbors haven't taken down their trees yet. It snows inches, a white blanket everywhere. They walk around with scarves wound around their delicate throats and parkas in which they hide soft bodies.

In her room, Maggie opens the last of her candy. The plastic crinkles and rips open. She eats the wafer inside.

And it burns.

All the walls are white around her, and the January air seems to have gotten in. She imagines the monitor beeping, beeping, the rise and fall of a small ribcage as it suffers through every breath. The line goes up and down, again and again, until it goes flat.

She's not going to die.

She thinks of pulled features and foaming mouths, and then she tries very hard not to think. The people around her are shuffling their booted feet, and the noise seems to grate in her ears. She's cold. She left in a hurry, anyway, with a daughter slung on a shoulder.

The monitor continues beeping in that room, erratic. No, no.

Coffee in a Styrofoam cup is passed over to her, and she jolts at the sudden warmth.

"You came." She speaks.

"Yeah."

It is Meralda. She has red-lined eyes and a red nose. Crying?

"How is she?" Reva need not answer. Nurses walk hurriedly from one end of the corridor to the other, and Reva realizes she has not cried yet. Huh, she thinks. Meralda sits silently. Tears roll over the bridge of her nose and onto her mouth, and she hurriedly wipes them off and sniffs. Eyes that used to glint like knives have been blunted.

She's shifted, that day, from the ER, and a month goes by, slowly, painfully, before Maggie's musculature relaxes again. It is cold and clammy those few months, and it gets colder.

The doctors say she won't walk the same way. She tries to say something, but she rarely talks now.

Maggie's back home now, dead-looking. "We

're sorry, ma'am," say the police. "I don't know where the candy came from," says Maggie. They're getting nowhere.

Inspector Lewis is sitting on her husband's favorite armchair, out of place. She looks at his face and the dull gray eyes in it, and the pointed nose, but cannot concentrate. He's asking if he can get Maggie as a witness after she's "taken some time." Reva gives a false smile and says she'll ask Maggie.

He nods grimly. He doesn't believe her, but then, neither does she.

Moms, be sure to check your child's candy, said the newspapers, because it sure is getting wild down in Lil' Whaler Town!

Once, when Reva had been a child, she had a dog. Sebastian. He'd been run over by the neighbor, and she remembers the weight in her throat, in her chest when she heard of it. She remembers her eyes prickling.

Rage had followed that, the kind that burns your lungs and hurts your throat. She's feeling it now, and her vision turns sharp, deadly, the edges of objects around her straightening out into thin lines. Her grip on the knife tightens, and her knuckles turn white.

The sun is shining yellow through the window when it strikes her: There were obviously other children with Maggie.

She reels with this obvious revelation. She visits Maggie's best friend. She bakes cookies for her, the girl in the ponytails and the yellow frock. Her house is painted a pretty shade of pastel green, with the nice terrace decorated with trees. Or shrubs.

"Hello," says Reva at the door, grinning. "Got some cookies. Maggie's making a steady recovery, so I thought I'd celebrate with you guys." Her grin feels out of place on her face, and her lips strain with it.

Later, when they're done, when Reva's done asking veiled questions and the cookies are just crumbs left on the plastic tray, small and insignificant, she goes home, a wolf that had caught the first scent of its prey.

Warm. Warmer.

The house is what you'd expect from a 72-year-old grandmother. Lots of lace. When she enters, Reva has already mapped out possible escape routes she may take if things get sticky. The door, the windows. The knives glint in the kitchen light, but Reva knows she doesn't have to bother. The gun in her pocket is a steady weight.

"Hello," greets Reva as she enters, willing her features into a mask that resembles harmlessness. Brows low and expression pained.

"Good morning," says the lady. "Have a seat."

Reva takes it. The sofa squeaks as she sits.

"Heard what happened to your daughter. Unfortunate, really."

No. No. Candy, candy—This old hag had to get to it somehow.

"I never thought of checking her goodies," Reva makes her eyes fill up, her voice tremble. "I should've."

This lady is one of those people who advise as a form of sympathy. She leans in, puts her old, wrinkly hand on Reva's shoulder. Reva fights her disgust.

"It's okay, dearie," she says, eyes crinkled at the edges in sympathy or age. "That must've felt bad, but y'know it's not your problem."

Here's her chance. "I just wish—wish people were more careful about where they got their candy. This wouldn't have happened if they did."

This old lady puffs up. Got her. Reva's eyes glint.

"Well, I make a point of buying homemade candy, y'know, it's organic, and there's this friend of mine who makes it in these big containers, real nice. Gave those to the kids."

"Huh—" says Reva, wiping away faux tears and giving the woman a watery smile, "Who? Might wanna buy some next time."

She's slipped into slang. The other Reva wouldn't talk like this.

"Old friend of mine," says the lady. "Name's William. Hope you buy some. He really needs the help—I think I have his business card somewhere."

Reva feels her heart go duck-duck-duck in her chest. Her ribs vibrate from it.

"Yes, please," says Reva.

Today is a nice day. Which means today is a Sunday.