Page 38 of By the Book

“You’re better at this than I am,” my mom said, holding out her phone. “Make sure you get all of us while I tell him to confess.”

Since I didn’t want to live throughthatagain (one time of being scared out of my shorts was enough, thanks), I asked, “Did anybody see you get home last night? What about your phone records? Did you go home and use the wi-fi? There’s got to be something that can confirm you were home, Stewart.”

“My phone was off so it wouldn’t ring during the auction,” he said. “And I went to sleep as soon as I got home. I can’t believe this. I didn’t do anything!”

“Balderdash,” my dad said.

(He did not say balderdash.)

“If Stewart’s the killer,” I asked, “who trapped us in here?”

Nobody said anything to that for several long seconds.

“He has an accomplice,” my dad said.

“So,” my mom said, “you admit we’re trapped?”

I took a deep, calming, cleansing breath. And then I took out my phone. I didn’t have any service. Neither, it turned out, did my parents or Stewart. Something about the library’s construction must have interfered with the signal. There was, however, a single bar of wi-fi. We spent a few silent minutes trying to connect with no success.

The genealogical and local history room had the dubious distinction of making the rest of the library look exciting in comparison. Locking bookcases with sliding glass doors lined the walls. They were filled with old historical volumes, like the ones I’d seen on the cart, plus binders, and even banker’s boxes. On top of the shelves were framed maps and bronze busts of—all men, and all looking a little like Harry S. Truman. (I mean, I knew they weren’t Truman, but the resemblance was definitely there.) Tables and chairs provided a workspace in the center of the room. There were a few workstations with desktop computers and microfilm readers, and then a reference desk where, in happier times, a librarian had probably sat. My favorite (read:leastfavorite) part was the framed family trees on the walls. They were the kind with spaces left next to the names so that you could include a photo of Great-grandpappy Barnabas. The result was that there were about a million grim-faced Oregon pioneers who had somehow survived dysentery and river crossings and having to hunt buffalo (yes, the extent of my knowledge is based on theOregon Trailcomputer game) and were now staring back at me in black-and-white, and they looked like they disapproved of all of my life choices. (Welcome to the club.)

“Stewart, boot up one of the computers and send somebody an email,” I said. “Dad—”

“I can shoot the lock out.”

“Nope. Check the librarian’s desk and see what’s in there. Tools, or things we can use as tools.”

Nodding, my dad moved off toward the desk.

“What about me?” my mom asked. “Oh fudge.” (Nope, not even close to what she actually said.) “I should have been recording this. Can you say it again?”

“You sit down and try not to exert yourself. Don’t think I forgot our earlier conversation.”

My mom didnotsit down, of course. She followed me as I pulled out one of the chairs and stood on it. I popped out one of the acoustic tiles from the drop ceiling easily enough, but when I tested the grid with a few experimental tugs, I almost pulled the whole thing down.

“Have you been working out?” my mom asked.

I chose not to respond to that.

“Dash, I found a vent,” my dad called. “Do you want to try to crawl through it?”

“Uh, no. No, I do not.”

“Do you know what would be lovely?” my mom said. “If there were a secret passage.”

“There’s no secret passage.”

“I know there’s not a secret passage. I’m saying it would be lovely if there were one. And what if one of the librarians hid a body in it? The body of her former lover! Who was a book banner—uh, someone who banned books! And they had a child together, and—”

Amnesia, I thought.

“—she has amnesia! Wouldn’t it be deliciously macabre?”

See, when Fox and Keme and Bobby tease me, this is what they don’t understand. This is the raw material I was working with.

“We could use one of these desks as a battering ram,” my dad said. “I bet these walls are ordinary two-by-fours.”

“Who should I email?” Stewart asked from the computer.

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