Page 35 of By the Book

They’d begun a process of working out the details of the donation and auction. Colleen had recommended an appraisal from a rare book dealer she’d used before. Enter George Chin. After a week, which Mrs. Shufflebottom must have spent on pins and needles, George wrote back, happy to confirm that the book was authentic and would bring, in his estimate, somewhere in the high six figures. I wasn’t sure if antiquarians normally provided figures like that, but in this case, it was clear why George had done so—to set the hook.

In her next email, Colleen asked that, considering the unexpected value of the diary, a portion of the auction proceedsgo to a literacy charity called Oregon Read-a-Thon. Big surprise, when I did a search on my phone, Oregon Read-a-Thon didn’t exist.

Because I was so smart, I was starting to suspect that the diary wasn’t real. The whole thing stank—Colleen showing up out of nowhere to offer the diary, her recommendation of a book dealer who could authenticate and appraise it, the insanely expensive insurance paid directly to George Chin, the request to split the proceeds of the auction. When I did a search on Colleen Worman, I got a few results—someone at the University of Colorado, an elementary school teacher, etc. No wealthy benefactresses. George Chin, on the other hand, turned out to be a real book dealer based out of Portland. The picture on the website matched the man I’d met at Hemlock House. That was interesting, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. If he really was a rare book dealer, had he done this kind of thing before?

Regardless of whether he had, it all made a crooked kind of sense. Colleen and George had been in on the scam together, and they’d even gone so far as to show up in person to the auction to carry off their con. If things had gone according to plan, they would have walked away with ten thousand dollars, plus whatever their cut of the auction price turned out to be. Not bad for a couple of months’ work.

What I didn’t understand, though, was their endgame. Sure, they’d get some money. But if the diary was a fake, wouldn’t someone eventually figure it out? Were they going to take the money and disappear? Or did they think the forgery—or whatever it was—would hold up to scrutiny?

I was still turning that question over in my head when something—no, someone—bumped the door. Keme’s head whipped up. I froze, clutching the printouts. A second passed. Then another. No sounds came.

I hurried over to the door and pressed my ear against it. I didn’t hear anything, so after another second, I inched the door open. Stewart was hustling away from Mrs. Shufflebottom’s office, pushing a book truck so fast he was about to break the speed limit. He was probably trying to act natural, which he totally spoiled by glancing over his shoulder. Our eyes met. And then hereallystarted to haul, uh, butt as he raced toward the stacks. One of the book truck’s casters was squeaking so loudly I thought it was going to fly off.

Keme had come up behind me, so I shoved the printouts at him. “Make sure Millie’s okay,” I said. “And make copies of these.”

He opened his mouth, but he snapped it shut again and nodded.

I was making my way around the circulation desk when my parents crept into the library.Creptdoesn’t do it justice. They snuck. They sneaked. They skulked (should it be skulkt?). It was this bizarre, hunched-over, scurrying hustle, and if they’d been dressed in trench coats and fedoras with billowing scarves wrapped around them, they couldn’t have stood out any more painfully. For what felt like a small eternity, all I could do was stare at them and think that this was where my genetic material had come from.

They, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to see me. They rushed across the open central area of the library toward the stacks. My dad whispered—loudly—“I saw him go in there.”

“I know, Jonny,” my mom whispered back—loudly. “I saw him too.”

And with a sinking feeling, I realized they weren’t here as some horrible joke or through cruel, cosmic chance.

They were snooping.

“Hey!” I said.

(Okay, it was a little louder than justsayingit.)

Aric Akhtar looked up fromPeopleand shushed me.

By that point, my parents were already disappearing into the stacks, so I hurried after them. From ahead of me, their whispers floated back, wordless but still unmistakable, and underscored by the squeak-squeak-squeak of the book truck. The aisles between the bookshelves were narrow and dim. Usually, I liked the shadowy stillness—it was peaceful, and I could pretend I had the library all to myself. Right then, though, I was wondering how long you had to be dating someone before you could ask them to help you cover up a murder. Bobby and I had only been together for a couple of months, but we’d known each other for over a year. That had to count for something, right?

At the next intersection, I stopped and listened. Voices came from my right, so I turned toward them. As I did, I caught a glimpse of movement behind me. I stopped, but whatever it was, it was gone now—someone walking one of the intersecting aisles, I decided.

I hurried after the voices. As they grew louder, I realized the squeak-squeak of the caster had stopped. I turned down another aisle and found myself looking at the door to the library’s genealogical and historical research room. The door was open, and the lights were on. My parents’ voices floated out to me.

Their words became clear as I drew closer.

“—give you five more seconds,” my dad said. “Make the smart choice. Tell us what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything,” Stewart said. “I don’t even know—”

“Confess!” my mom shouted.

Let me tell you: it caught us all off guard.

Stewart screamed.

My dad said a word you can’t say during story time.

I jumped halfway out of my Mexico 66s. Then I stumbled into a run. As I headed into the genealogy room, I caught thatflicker of movement at the corner of my eye again, but before I could focus on it, my attention was gripped by the scene in front of me.

It looked like my parents had caught Stewart in the midst of returning the genealogy books to the shelves. Stewart’s face was flushed, his eyes were wide, and a hint of sweat glistened at his hairline. Even though my mom was shorter than Stewart by at least six inches, she’d somehow managed to corner him. Stewart had wheeled the book truck between them as improvised cover, and he held out his hands like he could fend them off. He’d put on white cotton gloves since the last time I’d seen him, and they made him look like a clown. Or a mime. Or maybe like a magician.

My dad had worn a corduroy jacket, which he was now pushing back to reveal the gun holstered at his side. It was actually way less scary than my mom—I would have picked the gun any day.

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