The Book by M. Clifford Page A

would succumb to it.
    The van jostled to the right as Holden turned the wheel powerfully to the left, banking around a parked car in the lot across the street from her building. He rolled into the nearest spot and killed the engine. The continuous chatter of rain kept their eyes darting about and Holden had to take a few calm breaths before turning to her.
    “Alright Marion, I probably don’t have too much time, so I need to know where your diary is, exactly.”
    “It’s on my bedside table and looks identical to my Book, if you can remember what it looked like. It came as a companion to The Book when I got it on my eighth birthday.”
    Holden drooped his head and looked down. “I’m sorry I broke your Book, Marion. And no…I don’t remember what it looked like.” She nodded and held up her hands, as if modeling the shape would somehow help him imagine the device.
    “It’s dark green and orange with some thin, metal details. Like geometric shapes and things, I don’t know. There isn’t much on the table so it should be easy to find.”
    Holden cranked the thick handle to the door and it swung open in the wind, scratching the car beside him. That didn’t matter. He tugged his jacket against his neck in preparation for the rain and heard the jingling of Marion’s keys. She had pulled them from her pocket and held them out for him. When their hands met, Marion reached across the wheel and grabbed the scruff of his neck, pulling him close to kiss him with all the shivering spirit she had. The kiss between them was fleeting and simple, but it spoke of her undying trust for Holden and the volumes of dread they both shared in that moment, completely unsure of the profoundness into which they were embarking.
    “I have to go Marion.” he said, when she pulled back, embarrassed.
    “I know. I’m just afraid I’ll never see you again.” She leaned toward the window. “It’s stupid.”
    “I’ll be right back.” Holden glinted a delicate smile and closed the van door. He grabbed onto the truss work that was latched to the top of his van, hopped onto the thick, driver’s side tire and unfastened the rope that clung to the longest ladder. He pulled it free, threaded his arm through the middle rung and hoisted the ladder onto his shoulder before striding boldly toward the polished surface of the steel structure that was her apartment building.
    The only information that Holden had to go off of was what Winston had fed him that morning. Any fear that gathered in his chest and moved his legs, fear that caused his heart to dash with dread, was born from the sense that they were in danger. Holden felt that the information he was holding, including the bags of pages in the van, were extremely important and hauntingly dangerous. If what Winston said was correct, he couldn’t assume he was safe. There were layers here. Layers of danger, where one element could be more dangerous than another and he was choosing, rather foolishly, to walk further into it once again. Willingly. By returning to the bar, he risked. By taking Marion and the garbage bags, he risked. And now, by going into her apartment, he risked. But wasn’t Marion his responsibility? She was innocent in this. He ripped the page off the wall; he learned the truth; he sought out the museum exhibit, the antique dealer and eventually Winston; she was innocent in this and he couldn’t allow her to suffer over his lust for the truth. He wouldn’t allow her to be harmed over his need for answers to questions that should have been left alone. The least he could do for ruining her life was attempt to retrieve her diary.
    Thankfully, his fear was overpowering and it often forced him to think creatively. He assumed that, by entering her building as a common worker, someone with a job to do, he wouldn’t be bothered. What kind of guy would carry an enormous ladder into a building when he needed to look inconsequential or would need a quick getaway? He hoped that this