Beach Day

14: Tiff Commits Library Crimes

Without waiting for Matt to give the go-ahead, Tiff sets Kepler down and decides she's going to descend first— even though she can't see in the dark and her phone is broken as hell. And then she realizes that and makes a second mental note to tell her aunt what happened. Surely she won't forget again when the next opportunity arises. (She's going to and she knows it.)

"Tiff, you can't see in the dark," Matt reminds her, like he can read her thoughts.

"It hasn't stopped me before."

"Maybe it should stop you now."

"Hah! Fat chance!" She trips over a step and pretends she didn't. Matt caught it, though. He sighs and flips a wall switch.

Old fluorescents flicker in the ceiling with their plastic full of dead bugs. This place is a treasure trove. Every wall is lined with wonderful little treats for a supernatural investigation nerd like her. Weapons line every surface; there are boxes of tools under a table in the center; there is a set of shelves taking up the entirety of the wall, packed deliciously with tomes she can't wait to crack into; even the different kinds of bullets have a sub-organization by material. She peeps the silver ones and considers pocketing some when Matt isn't looking.

"Kepler, don't touch that crossbow," Matt scolds. Kepler touches it anyway, squeaking defiantly.

"Matt, this place is amazing," she breathes, using the last of the breath she had left to say it.

"Don't forget to breathe."

"I didn't forget to breathe," she lies. "I don't forget stuff like that."

"Yeah, whatever, Miss 'I got so excited about scripture reenactment that I passed out.'"

"Hey! That was one time!"

Church was the setting for a lot of her formative experiences with getting insanely excited about things. Now that she thinks about it, that tendency has always been there. She just didn't know what to do with it, so she bit through wood during scripture recitations and she passed out when she was allowed to play the part of Judas or Peter (which was a common experience, because nobody ever wanted those parts).

"What is this place? Why am I— Why is this under the garage?" She turns around to take it all in, noting a three-ring binder labeled Daemonologie next to an old book labeled the same on the topmost shelf. "Has this been here the whole time?"

In her peripheral vision, Matt nods. "I guess so. I guess it's been here my whole life. I didn't know until pretty recently— about two years ago, I think."

She turns over her shoulder. "Before or after—"

"After you left."

"I didn't want to leave."

Maybe it's a sore subject or that she's realizing the injustice of what is logically sound here— that her uncle knew the entire time that monsters were real. He had the opportunity to take her in.

And he let her leave.

He let her think that she was losing it and that she needed proof of what she had seen and who she met after she almost died in the woods. Does her mother know, she wonders? Did Ruth Sheridan know the truth the whole time? The anger rises. She tells it not to, but it doesn't listen.

Now isn't a time to explode. She defuses the bomb; she swallows it; she shoves it to the bottom of the box. This is fine. Her family turned against her for no reason. It's fine. Maybe Uncle Mike was afraid of the consequences of reaching out; maybe her mother just didn't know the truth and only knew what she believed. She can give them the benefit of doubt. She can hope that they have changed. All people are capable of bettering themselves, right?