Page 65 of The Pretenders of Copper County
“Hmm.” She tilted her head to look at me. “You know, I’d never have picked you for a Virgo. You have real Libra energy.”
“Right?” I pressed a hand to my chest. “That’s what I’ve always thought, too. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a Virgo, but it makes people think I’m a certain way, and I’m really not.”
“Mmhmm. It’ll take me just a second to print your card and get your holder ready. Feel free to explore on your own if you’d like. Or if you’d like me to show you around, I could?—”
“Actually.” I licked my lips. “You mentioned the other day that you had a… um… computer lab?” I said the last words in a guilty whisper, half expecting a SWAT team led by Reed Sunday to come bursting through the doors and stop me.
Instead, when the door opened, a tall, grumpy-looking man came in, towed by a pair of exuberant toddlers.
“Gideon,” Ms. Dorian said calmly. She assessed the children, who quieted and straightened under her watchful stare. “Harrison. Harper. Good morning.”
“G’mornin’,” the little ones singsonged.
The man glanced around the space, looking a bit overwhelmed. “The kids wanted to pick out some stories. Er… bedtime stories. About firefighters? Liam’s usually the library dad in our family, but he’s out of town.”
“Certainly.” She folded her hands on her desk. “And Itrust we won’t have a repeat of the unfortunate magic marker incident that occurred last time you were here… will we, Harrison?”
“N-no?” The little boy glanced up at his father, who lifted an eyebrow. “No,” he repeated.
“And Harper, will we tear pages?”
“No,” the girl said firmly.
“Excellent.” Ms. Dorian smiled warmly and stood. “Let’s head up to the children’s section, and I’ll help you find some books.” She held out a hand to each child. To me, she called over her shoulder, “Computer lab is down in the basement, Chris. Let me know if you need help.”
I stared at her for a long moment. I thought I understood why some people called her The Dragon… but I also low-key thought I’d just gotten a glimpse of what Reed Sunday might have become if he’d gone to librarian school instead of the secret agent academy.
I didn’t think he or Ms. Dorian would appreciate the comparison, though.
I made my way downstairs, flipping on the lights as I went. Down here, the air was a little musty, but the place was neat as a pin. One half of the space was subdivided into a couple of private meeting rooms, each of which was outfitted with a large table and a stack of folding chairs. This half of the space held a tiny kitchenette with a water dispenser and minifridge and a dozen small cubicles set in two rows of six. Each cubicle contained a desktop computer that had seen at least a decade of life, along with a rickety rolling chair.
I walked all the way to the back of the room and pulled out the chair.
Did I feel a bit guilty that I hadn’t been entirely up-front with Reed about what I wanted to do at the library? Maybe. A little.
But I needed to know things. Things about my family. Things that affected me. And despite how understanding Reed had been this morning, despite how much I honestly liked his protectiveness—good gosh, it was the hottest thing in the world—I wouldn’t ask permission for things I, a competent adult human, knew weren’t dangerous. I didn’t want to live that way anymore.
Reed could trust me to make good choices. I would trust him to respect them.
All of which sounded pretty hecking dramatic, especially since the results that came up when I googled my uncle’s name were… well, boring.
There was an old Yelp review of the Cellar—4.6 stars, Best Gouda in Central New Jersey.
There were several write-ups from our local newspaper over the years about Danny’s gardening and the awards he’d won.
There was Nonna’s obituary, listing Danny and me as “survived by.”
There was a mention of him sponsoring the community theater’s production ofCarrie: The Musical… which was kind of a crime but not the type to get you in serious trouble.
I sat back in my chair, studying the screen, and bit my lip.
On the one hand, this was a huge relief. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but the more Reed talked about Danny being a criminal like it was a given, the more I’d… well, started to wonder, even though I knew better. Idid.
But on the other hand, nothing in these search results proved Danny was innocent. Nothing told me where he was or how to help him.
If this were aJohn Ruffianepisode, there’d be some sort of clue—a combination to a bus station locker or a convenient coded message that fell out of a book. But as Reed had pointed out, that show was just the teeniest bit… fictional. In real life, Danny hadn’t left me any way to trace him or even a reliable way to contact him in an emergency. The only way I even knew he was still alive was…
The postcards.
