Page 48 of By the Book

“Okay,” I said, “fine. This is good, uh, confirmation, I guess—”

“And look what I found on his tablet,” my mom said, making room for my dad to sit next to her.

Like I wasn’t. even. there.

“I hacked his account—”

“Did you use an admin profile?” my dad asked.

“That’s not a thing,” I said.

“Did you have a bypass dongle?”

“That’sdefinitelynot a thing.”

“His passcode was zero-zero-zero-zero,” my mom said proudly. “It only took me two tries.”

“That’s not really hacking,” I said. But even I felt like that was a little mean-spirited.

“Look at these emails,” my mom said. “Ignore the recent ones—and then right here!”

My dad read the emails and said one of Talon Maverick’s favorite words.

Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked, “Can I see?”

“Sure, Dashiell,” he said. “Take a look at what your mom found.”

Again: I chose not to engage.

The first few emails, it turned out, looked like they had to do with George’s day-to-day business: a client was asking if George could help him find any early Mark Twain, and then there was a monthly catalog from an East Coast antiquarian, and a follow-up email from another bookseller, apparently continuing a conversation about a holograph manuscript of Sarah Gage’sAstor’s Arcadia. (I had no idea whatAstor’s Arcadiawas, but it sounded unbelievably boring. And probably pro-Astor. And did I mention boring?) George was trying to get an estimated value for the manuscript, and since the numbers quoted fell in the eye-popping-six-figures range, I didn’t think I’d be buying it myself any time soon.

After that, though, the messages got more interesting. Messages from Mrs. Shufflebottom—frantic at first, and growing increasingly angry throughout the day as she demanded answers about the insurance policy she’d purchased. George hadn’t replied once.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why didn’t—”

“—they leave?” my mom said. “Exactly!”

“Great question,” my dad said.

To mymom.

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

“All right,” I said. “Fantastic. We had a great time. This was a lovely family experience. I’ve got a lot of raw material to work with when I’m inevitably confined to a psych ward. Now can we please leave?”

My mom gave a sigh that hovered between affectionate and annoyed. “My little pessimist.”

“Buck up, Dashiell,” my dad told me. “We’re almost done, but we’ve got to check the upstairs too.”

“No, we need to leave before someone notices that you brought floodlights into a dark house—not to mention the massive RV you parked out front—and decides to call the sheriff. Do you know how angry Bobby would be? Worse than angry—disappointed!”

“Your friend will be fine,” my mom said. “And not everything’s about you, Dashiell.”

My parents, everyone. Patricia Lockley and Jonny Dane.

To my dad, my mom said, “I was thinking about that Talon Maverick chapter with the insane clown inside the closet.”

“My dear,” he said as he reached down and produced ANOTHER GUN (yes, I had to say it at Millie volume) from an ankle holster. “I’m way ahead of you.”

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