I'm straightening the graphic novel display for the third time today when Mrs. Keller approaches, her iPad clutched to her chest like a shield. Her expression - wide eyes, pinched mouth - tells me everything I need to know before she even speaks.

  "Rachel," she whispers, as if we're in a library. Which, yes, we are, but the Children's Section is hardly the reference room. "Councilwoman Richardson just walked in. She's doing a surprise visit for Summer Reading Club."

  I freeze, a copy of Maus suspended mid-shelve. The room doesn't spin, exactly, but everything narrows, tunneling down to that single name. Richardson. Maya Richardson. Oh yes, I'm familiar.

  "Is there a press team?" I manage to ask, sliding the book into place with mechanical precision.

  Mrs. Keller nods enthusiastically. "Just one photographer and someone from her office. She's by the front desk now, talking with Director Hayes."

  Of course she is. Hayes loves nothing more than the opportunity to genuflect before city officials who control our budget. I smooth down my cardigan, the navy blue one with the small coffee stain on the sleeve that I keep meaning to replace, and take a deep breath.

  "Thanks for letting me know," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'll just continue with the--"

  "Oh, but she specifically asked about the Summer Reading Program," Mrs. Keller interrupts. "And you're in charge of that this year."

  Something cold settles in my stomach. Specific. Asked. About. My. Program.

  "Did she," I say flatly. Not a question.

  Mrs. Keller doesn't notice the shift in my tone. "Yes! Isn't that exciting? A city council member taking an interest in literacy! Director Hayes is bringing her this way in a few minutes."

  Exciting isn't the word I'd use. Terrifying, maybe. Infuriating, definitely. But I paste on my best Librarian Smile, the one I use for difficult patrons and budget meetings, and nod.

  "I'll be ready," I assure her, and Mrs. Keller scurries off, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

  I take stock of my surroundings. The Children's Section is bright and cheerful, with rainbow-colored shelves and reading nooks shaped like little houses. Two mothers sit with toddlers in the corner, flipping through picture books. A teenage volunteer is helping a young boy find the next book in some adventure series. Normal. Mundane. Safe.

  Except it isn't, not anymore. For a moment, I contemplate strangulation. No. Violence is not the answer, Rachel, be consistent with your moral values.

  I have approximately three minutes to decide how to handle this. I could call in sick, rush to the bathroom and claim food poisoning. I could text Ben, though what exactly he could do from his office across town, I'm not sure. No. I don't think there's an easy out.

  So I stay. I straighten my name badge, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and remind myself that I am a forty-something-year-old professional woman with a master's degree, standing in my workplace, surrounded by witnesses. I am not alone in my living room with a broken door and the sound of rain on my roof and several dozen mad science animal hybrids trying to kill me and my family.

  When Director Hayes rounds the corner with Councilwoman Richardson, I'm arranging a display of banned books with deliberate calm. A small, almost milquetoast act of rebellion, perhaps, but it settles something in me.

  "And here's our Children's Section," Hayes is saying, his voice pitched just a touch too high. "We've seen tremendous engagement with our Summer Reading Program this year, thanks to Mrs. Small's excellent leadership."

  Richardson smiles, all teeth and no warmth, as her eyes find mine. She's wearing a cream-colored pantsuit that probably costs more than a month of my salary, her hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders. She looks polished, powerful, and completely at ease. If I didn't know what she was capable of, I might even find her impressive.

  "Mrs. Small," she says, extending a manicured hand. "I've heard so much about your program."

  I'm sure you have, I think, but don't say. Instead, I take her hand and shake it firmly. Her grip is dry and cool, like a snake.

  "Councilwoman," I reply, keeping my voice professional. "Welcome to South Branch. We're always happy to have city officials take an interest in literacy."

  Hayes beams as if I've just announced world peace. "Mrs. Small has implemented several innovative approaches this year. Our registration numbers are up nearly thirty percent."

  Richardson raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely interested. Or at least, performing genuine interest convincingly. "That's impressive. What's your secret?"

  "No secret," I say. "Just meeting kids where they are. Graphic novels, manga, interactive storytelling—whatever gets them through the door and engaging with stories."

  "Fascinating," she says, and then turns to Hayes. "Would you mind if I spoke with Mrs. Small about the program details? Perhaps she could show me some of the materials while you speak with my assistant about those budget items we discussed?"

  Hayes practically trips over himself in his eagerness to comply. "Of course, of course! Take all the time you need. Rachel is our expert on youth engagement."

  And just like that, he abandons me, leading Richardson's assistant toward his office. The photographer hangs back, snapping a few pictures of Richardson examining a book display before Hayes beckons him as well.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "For the budget discussion," he explains, and the photographer follows, leaving me alone with the woman who tried to destroy my family.

  Richardson waits until they're out of earshot before her smile dims several watts. Not disappearing entirely - I bet good money she's too practiced for that - but shifting into something more... efficient.

  "You have a lovely library," she says, running a finger along the spine of a book. The Giver.

  "Thank you," I say, watching her carefully. "Though I suspect you didn't come here to discuss our collection development policy."

  She laughs, a practiced sound that probably wins over voters and colleagues alike. "Direct. I appreciate that in public servants." She picks up the book, thumbs through it absently. "Your Summer Reading Program really is impressive. Thirty percent increase is no small achievement."

  I say nothing, waiting. This dance is familiar from a thousand bureaucratic meetings - the small talk, the false praise, the circling before the strike, like watching a snake in the grass.

  "I've always believed that keeping young people engaged in positive activities is essential," she continues, replacing the book precisely where she found it. "Particularly in communities like this one."

  "Communities like this one?" I repeat, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

  "Working class. Diverse. High potential for juvenile delinquency." She says this last part delicately, like she's offering a diagnosis rather than an insult. "Libraries are frontline institutions in the fight for our children's futures."

  "They are," I agree cautiously. "Though I tend to think of it less as a fight and more as an opportunity. For growth, for exploration, for discovery."

  "Such an optimistic perspective," she says, with just enough condescension to make my teeth ache. "But we both know the realities facing today's youth. The temptations. The dangers." She lowers her voice. "The bad influences."

  "Is there something specific you wanted to discuss, Councilwoman?" I ask, keeping my voice level.

  She sighs, as if disappointed by my failure to play along. "I'm concerned about certain... extracurricular activities that some teens in this area have been engaging in. Activities that put themselves and others at risk."

  My heart beats faster, but I keep my expression neutral. "That sounds like something for the police, or perhaps social services. I'm just a librarian."

  "But you're also a mother," she says, her voice softening to something almost sympathetic. "A mother who, I imagine, wants what's best for her child. For all children."

  I meet her gaze steadily. "Every parent wants what's best for their child."

  "Of course," she agrees. "And what's best rarely involves putting oneself in harm's way. Running around at night. Interfering in matters beyond one's understanding or authority." She pauses, letting the words hang between us. "Wouldn't you agree?"

  The teenage volunteer glances our way, perhaps sensing the tension, and I paste on a smile for his benefit. When I turn back to Richardson, my expression hardens again.

  "Are you threatening me, Councilwoman?" I ask, my voice soft but clear.

  Her eyes widen slightly - the first genuine reaction I've seen from her. Oh, she plays the sincerity so well. Is she being sincere? Does she really not understand what a shakedown looks like when she's performing one? How droll. "Threatening? Not at all. I'm expressing concern for the welfare of our community's youth. As should anyone in your position."

  "Mom to mom," I say, leaning in slightly, "you should know that threatening my child is going to have the opposite effect of whatever it is you want me to do."

  Something flashes across her face. Irritation, maybe, or surprise at being so directly challenged. "I'm not a mother, Mrs. Small."

  I look her up and down, taking in the expensive suit, the careful makeup, the calculated poise, and then stare directly into her eyes. My response is automatic, from a part of my brain so basal it might as well be the mitochondria talking. "Could've fooled me."

  For just a moment - a fraction of a second - her mask slips. Her eyes harden, her jaw tightens, and I see it: the woman from across the street, summoning a Tyrannosaurus Rex on my home. Did she think I'd forget? Damn, I should've taken a picture. Then it's gone, replaced by a politician's practiced smile.

  "I think you misunderstand me," she says, her voice honey over steel. "I'm simply suggesting that, as community leaders, we have a responsibility to guide young people toward constructive activities. Library programs. Summer internships. College preparation." She gestures around at the bookshelves. "Education and civic engagement, not reckless vigilantism."

  "I'm very aware of my responsibilities," I say coolly. "To my community, to the young people I serve, and to my family."

  "I'm glad to hear that," she replies. "Because responsibilities sometimes come with difficult choices. Balancing priorities. Considering consequences." She straightens her already-perfect jacket. "Municipal jobs are precious in this economy. Budget cuts happen. Programs get eliminated. It would be a shame to see such successful initiatives discontinued."

  My blood runs cold, but I refuse to let her see it. "You know what I've noticed about bullies, Councilwoman?" I say, arranging books with methodical precision, keeping my eyes locked on her. I've been doing this for too long. I know where they go by muscle memory. The plastic on the spines. "They always assume everyone else is as afraid as they are."

  She blinks, clearly not expecting this response. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Fear," I clarify. "It's what drives them. Fear of losing control, losing power, losing face." I slide Fahrenheit 451 into a prominent position on the display. Yes, I'm going out of order on my book pile, and no, the symbolic meaning does not do anything. Petitions don't do anything either, but that doesn't stop me signing them. It brings me a little pleasure. "And they project that fear onto others, assuming everyone will cower at the first sign of threat."

  Her smile turns glacial. "That's an interesting psychological theory, Mrs. Small. But I assure you, I'm not afraid of anything or anyone in this city."

  "That's your first mistake," I say simply.

  Before she can respond, Director Hayes returns, still beaming with bureaucratic delight. "I hope you've had a productive conversation! Our Summer Reading materials are quite impressive, aren't they?"

  Richardson smoothly pivots, her politician's mask firmly back in place. "Absolutely fascinating. Mrs. Small has given me much to think about."

  Hayes clasps his hands together. "Wonderful! Now, we have a few more departments to visit if you have time?"

  "Of course," Richardson says, already turning away. She pauses, looking back at me with that same cold smile. "Thank you for your insights, Mrs. Small. I'm sure we'll be in touch."

  Not a promise. A threat.

  I watch her walk away, flanked by Hayes and her returned assistant, her heels clicking decisively on the library floor. My hands are shaking slightly, and I tuck them into my cardigan pockets.

  Only when she's completely out of sight do I allow myself to lean against the bookshelf, exhaling slowly. The encounter lasted maybe ten minutes, but it feels like I've run a marathon.

  The teenage volunteer approaches cautiously. "Mrs. Small? Are you okay?"

  I straighten up, forcing a smile. "Fine, Jason. Just tired. Political visits are always... draining."

  He nods sagely, as if he understands the complex undercurrents of what just happened. "She seemed kind of intense."

  "That's one word for it," I mutter, then shake my head. "Let's finish this display, shall we? I think we need more dystopian fiction. Something about the dangers of unchecked power. Maybe that can be our theme for August."

  Jason gives me an odd look but doesn't question it. Smart kid.

  As I arrange books with trembling hands, my mind races. I need to call Ben. I need to warn Sam. I need to figure out exactly what game Richardson is playing and, more importantly - how far she's willing to go to win it.