The Last Writer by Adriane Leigh (books like harry potter .txt) 📕

it was about the length of my ring finger. “I can, actually.”

I was reclined in my tiny twin bed, Nate perched on the foot with half a dozen file folders spread around him.

“When you snuck up on me in the greenhouse tonight, I didn’t expect you’d come with bedtime stories,” Nate whispered.

“I owed you one,” I said.

“More than one.”

“Hey, it’s not like you’re actually sleeping in the cellar, since you discovered that escape tunnel to the greenhouse.”

“The greenhouse isn’t exactly cozy.”

“I brought you a blanket and pillow, you know what I risked for your comfort? Mother is very utilitarian about most things.”

“You don’t say?” Nate slipped another page out of the report, eyes scanning the handwritten notes. “I guess anyone would turn deranged after growing up at Usher.”

“She didn't really grow up here. I mean, she says she did, but she went to school in the city. She spent a lot of summers here. I don’t think she was around when this creepy stuff was happening.”

“Zara,” Nate paused, catching my eye, “has it ever stopped being creepy here?”

I chuckled, then clamped my hands over my lips. It was after midnight, a rogue laugh ringing through the house would definitely call Mother’s attention to us. And what would happen if she did discover us?

I didn't care, the risk seemed worth it when his presence elicited giggles and his absence left tears.

Dramatic maybe, but true nonetheless.

“Does it make me creepy that I just want to investigate the locked rooms more?”

“Thousand percent. But I’m right there with ya. What room does your mom sleep in?”

“Sleep?” I huffed. “She’s been working on that book all hours. I saw her in the garden in the middle of the night with her notebook. She’s gone batty.”

“You’re tellin’ me she wasn’t before?”

I couldn’t help the smile that cracked my lips. “I guess this house crawled inside of her.”

“And caused a crack,” Nate said as he flipped more pages. “A total split with reality.”

“She hasn’t split with reality. She just wants to cash in so she has more time to write.”

“Is that what you think?” Nate caught my eye. “You’re more naive than I thought then. How old are you again?”

“Fifteen,” I lied, but it didn’t feel like it. Yarrow and Yara were fifteen and a half and hardly looked it, and I was way smarter than them. “And I’m not naive. I told you, I’ve read every Shakespeare play.” I controlled the shudder that normally shook me when I thought of the late nights and the welts from my mother's ruler across my knuckles when I stumbled on a verse in Hamlet.

“Shakespeare doesn’t make you smart, stupid girl. My mom read passages from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to me every night, she still ran off to the city chasing dreams and drugs and whatever else.”

I let his words sink in, trying to see life through his eyes. “Well, I still think reading makes you smart in the most important ways.”

“The ways of love?” He laughed with a rueful gleam in his eye. “Reading makes you cultured, not smart. That’s two different things.”

“It makes you smart in the ways of human nature, all the best and worst of people is in those stanzas and meters. It’s brilliant in its simple authenticity. When King Lear was overruled by his greedy and power-hungry daughters, or when Hamlet lost his mind worrying about the people that didn’t matter and let the only good thing that did drown in a river? People are always doing things in their own worst interest. Shakespeare knew that better than anyone. He taught me nothing is as it seems and to trust no one.”

“Huh.” Nate regarded me intently. “You have read a lot of Shakespeare.” He leaned closer. “And that’s not a very romantic view at all.”

“Told you, I’m not naive. I know exactly what’s on the minds of anyone in the room at any given time.”

“Oh yeah?” He nudged closer.

“Yup. Body language, eye contact, it’s all there.”

“So, what am I thinking now then?” he challenged me.

I tipped my head, assessing the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes. “You want to investigate those locked rooms.”

His grin tipped as he held my gaze extra beats. “Wrong, but I’ll take it.” He stood from the bed and thrust his hand out. “Come on then.”

“Right now?” I shook my head, twisting the tiny bone again.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, just a finger I found.”

“A finger?” He swiped it from my hand. “Now you’ve gone mad.”

“Or have I?” I smirked when he brought it close to his eyes and turned it.

“Shit, this does look like a finger.”

“It is. I confirmed it in an old anatomy textbook.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“Not far from the fountain in the garden.”

“In the garden, huh?” He turned the porcelain white digit. “Maybe we should start our investigation there after all.”

“I’ve been all over the garden the last few weeks, there are secret hiding spots everywhere. You could tell me there was a graveyard nestled among the rose bushes and I’d believe you.”

Nate shook his head. “All the testing they did, there must have been some cases that didn’t turn out.”

“You mean, some kids that died?”

Nate shrugged. “Maybe.”

The silence hung then, only the dim lamp lighting the room as dark clouds blanketed the moon.

“I should get back to the greenhouse.”

“Do you want me to walk you or do you want an extra blanket? You can have anything of mine.” I meant it, I wanted to offer to curl up beside him in the greenhouse but thought he would find me really creepy if I did.

“No thanks, Zara.” A sad smile turned up his lips. “You're sweet.” He set the finger bone on the edge of my nose, letting it teeter softly before dragging the tip over my eyebrow and along my hairline tenderly. “I wouldn’t want you to get caught trying to save me.”

I would.

I felt the words burn in my throat but tramped them down.

“Good night, spoiled brat,” he teased, dropping the finger bone in my hand and then