The Book by M. Clifford Page B

attitude would give him looks of disregard if anyone involved with The Book were waiting for her to come home. Walking around with a badge of blamelessness was always a safer route.
    As he entered her building, climbed the quiet stairs to her floor and walked down the empty hallway to her apartment, his mind began its cynical re-evaluation. When he pulled up to The Library, hadn’t one of the regulars been yanking on the door? Maybe it had been the same guy later, just searching for a drink to drown his Sunday sorrows. What if all this had been the ravings of a senile old man? What if they were fine? What if a lot of people were aware of the edits in The Book? Holden considered that maybe there had been a clear explanation online and if he had only taken a moment to review his curiosities on the internet, he would have found that they were perfectly safe. That this was a government sanctioned, socially accepted detail that he had stumbled onto and overreacted about; and some elderly man’s conspiracy theory made him yank Marion out of the business she had destroyed over some perplexing anxiety. It could have all been for nothing.
    This attitude sustained Holden and strengthened him as he reached for her keys and drew close to the door to her apartment.
    One of the interesting details about Marion’s building was that there were short, rectangular windows above each door that could be propped open a few inches to allow air to circulate. At times, it made the hallways stink of many different scents that should never circulate, but it remained an interesting architectural detail and Marion, it seemed, was one of the few people that took advantage of the window. It was by that small detail, that Holden was saved.
    As he neared the door with the ladder balanced evenly on his shoulder, he stopped. There were noises. Faint, suspicious noises that could have been anything. If the window above her door had been closed, Holden would have ignored the noises and unlocked the deadbolt. With it open, he could tell that they were coming from her apartment. There was a scratching. A shuffling. Then footsteps followed by the cracking sound of a plastic bag being whipped open in hollow, suspicious air.
    There were people inside her apartment and he was standing at the door, holding her keys. Holden quickly realized how foolish and dangerous it had been to go into that building. To think, for even a moment, that he was safe enough to risk entering her apartment. He holstered the keys and walked silently back to the staircase, being careful not to knock the walls with the ladder. He didn’t look back, didn’t act out of the ordinary and didn’t rush. He calmly returned to the lower level and exited the building, as if nothing had happened. Winston had been right. Marion’s simple act of searching The Book to confirm the writing on the pages from her walls had launched a chain of events that caused men to conceal themselves inside her apartment and search through her stuff. It made him appreciate how right he was to race back and rescue her, despite the improbability. If he hadn’t, she may have already been inside one of those bags that had been whipped frivolously open.
    Holden could see through the rain and passing cars that Marion was sitting calmly in the front seat. Her eyes were closed and her hands were pressed together, as if she were praying. And he was right. She had been praying. In fact, it was the most intense time with God she had ever experience. But once she heard him reattaching the ladder to the roof, Marion swung her hands to the sides of the vinyl seat and gripped tight, staring intensely at the driver’s side window. He had come back quickly and she was certain of the reason – Holden had found her diary on the bedside table without a problem. When he opened the door looking frightened, his hair and shirt soaked in the rain, and tossed his jacket to her saying, “Cover up your face,” Marion guessed she was