Paper Tigers by Damien Angelica Walters Page B

glared at the eye on the napkin.

    A storm rolled in, banishing the sun behind a heavy veil of grey. The extreme shift was typical for Baltimore weather. Don’t like it? Wait five minutes, it will change. A common joke, yet one borne from truth. Late in the afternoon, with an oil slick of panic on her tongue, Alison donned her scarf and gloves and zipped her coat high under her neck. With sunglasses in place, never mind that there wasn’t the slightest trace of a glare outside, she stepped into the autumn chill, holding tight to a shopping bag containing the album with one hand and an umbrella with the other.
    She paused at the street sign. The tips of her shoes had not made it past.
    Go back, go back.
    She would not. She needed to know where the album came from. She crossed the street, sidestepping a puddle of scummy water. Despite the hour, she passed only three people, all too busy dodging raindrops to pay attention to her.
    Several customers stood inside the shop and her stomach twistedinto a tight knot. She waited by the far end of the front window, away from the door. The customers moved to another aisle, their laughter a distant trill through the glass. An ache blossomed in Alison’s fingers, and she shifted the bag to her other hand. The umbrella slipped, sending cold rain down her face. When the customers laughed again, she took a deep breath.
    They saw you. They’re laughing at you. You should leave now. Go home, where it’s safe.
    She cringed as the bell overhead announced her entrance. Keeping her back to the interior of the store, she closed the umbrella with a wet snap and wiped rain from her face and sunglasses.
    The dark lenses coupled with the gloom outside transformed the shop into an indistinct maze. A man near the old desk gave her a quick glance and a second, longer one; two women next to the bookcase did the same, but after they turned away, they began speaking to each other in low tones.
    I told you so.
    Alison sidestepped still-unpacked boxes and plastic bags, her knuckles white, approached the counter, and took the album from the bag. Slowly, the whispers trailed off.
    Conversation drifted out from the half-open door behind the counter. Soft, slurring words punctuated with brief pauses and rolling Rs.
    â€œDid he write this one before or after the one you lent to me? I can never remember,” one of the women said, her voice thin and reedy.
    â€œEeep!” Another voice exclaimed, this one deeper-pitched, and a book thumped to the floor.
    Alison hissed air between her teeth.
    â€œSpiders, I hate them.” Nervous laughter followed. “I think I’ll pick that one up new after all.”
    Elena, her hair covered with a bright orange scarf, peeked out, saw Alison, and held up an index finger. She said something overher shoulder before stepping out, and her gaze panned the sunglasses, on the visible skin, until recognition flashed in her eyes.
    â€œHelp you?”
    â€œI’d like to find out if you know anything about this album’s previous owner. I called a few days ago, and the man I spoke with told me to bring it in so you could take a look and see if you remember who dropped it off.”
    She slid the album across the counter, and Elena waited until she took her hands away before opening the front cover, her brows drawn together and the corners of her mouth downturned.
    â€œThe pages are—”
    Muttering something not in English, Elena flipped through the album, too fast for Alison to catch anything but a brief glimpse. A yellowed scrap of paper slid out from between two pages and landed on the counter. They both grabbed for it at the same time, and Elena pulled her hand away before their fingers met.
    Told you, told you, told you.
    The words fluttered inside with the insistence of a caged bird’s wings.
    â€œThis left in back, I think. No owner. Is old,” Elena said, pushing the album back to Alison’s side of the