Ripped From the Pages by Kate Carlisle Read Free Book Online Page A

Children were notoriously dangerous to the health of a fine
     book.
    I made a mental note to ask Derek to translate the Frenchwords for me, and then moved on to study the inner pages. The paper was thick and
     white with some foxing throughout. The occasional instance of reddish brown spots
     was to be expected on a book this old. Fortunately, there were no more scrawled writings
     from Anton or Jean Pierre on any other pages.
    I did a quick survey of the rest of the book and discovered an old piece of notepaper
     folded and wedged between two pages, marking the beginning of chapter forty-five.
     At first I thought it was a bookmark, but when I unfolded it, I found a diagram with
     a list of numbers and more words written in French. Again, my pitiful schoolgirl French
     didn’t help. I would have to show this to Derek, too. Naturally, he spoke flawless
     French among the other hundred or so languages he seemed to know.
    The big school clock on the studio wall ticked off the time. That old thing had to
     be thirty years old, I thought fondly, realizing I’d spent over two hours here. I
     had to go home and get ready for dinner with Austin and Robin, so I found a short
     stack of soft cloths in one of Abraham’s drawers, used two of them to wrap around
     the book for protection, and slipped the book into my tote bag.
    Walking home took longer because it was all uphill, but I made it back in time to
     take a quick shower and dress for dinner. Derek had a glass of wine waiting for me.
     “Thank you. This is nice.”
    “I thought we could relax for a few minutes.” We sat on the comfortable couch in the
     Quinlans’ living room. Derek had placed a plate of crackers and a small triangle of
     softened Brie on the heavy wood coffee table. “Did you have a chance to examine the
     book?”
    “Yes,” I said, “and I was hoping you’d look at it, too. I’m in need of your translation
     skills.”
    “I assume the book is written in French.”
    “It is,” I said, smiling. “But you don’t have to translate the book for me.”
    “Good, because I’m fairly certain you can pick up an English version somewhere.”
    I gave him a look as I swirled my wine and took a taste. “What I hope you’ll translate
     are the notes I found inside the book.”
    “Notes?” he said, intrigued. “I’ll be happy to look them over first thing tomorrow.
     Do they explain everything that happened in the cave?”
    I chuckled. “If only. No, the one in the book was written by two little boys long
     before the cave incident. And get this, they wrote it in blood.”
    Derek laughed, knowing my squeamishness around blood. “You must’ve loved discovering
     that.”
    “It’s not funny. It’s gross.”
    “That’s because you were never a little boy.”
    “Nice of you to notice.”
    “I’ve definitely noticed.” He sat back and stretched his arm across my shoulders.
     “Boys like to do gross things. I thought you knew.”
    “I do. The note made me think of Jackson and Austin as kids. They probably would’ve
     done something like that. Disgusting creatures.”
    “Young boys are morbidly fascinated by blood. My brothers and I tried to stab or slice
     one another up at every opportunity.”
    “Oh God. And your poor mother had to put up with five of you.”
    “She loved every minute of it. We were angels.”
    “I can’t wait to hear her version of the story.”
    He shrugged. “She might use another term to describe us.”
    “The word
hooligans
comes to mind,” I said, laughing.
    He grinned. “I suppose that’s more accurate.”
    I took another sip of wine. “This is awfully good.”
    “It’s the five-year-old pinot noir we tasted today. I begged your brother for a bottle
     to bring home.”
    I rested my head on his shoulder. “My hero.”
    “It’s the least I could do, knowing you were hard at work the entire afternoon.”
    I sat forward, spread some cheese on a cracker and handed it to him, and then made
     one for