Page 72 of The Librarians
Sophie shines her phone’s flashlight on Jeannette’s wrist to visually confirm that she is holding the correct spot—and tries one more time. Still no pulse.
Her heart thuds. She rounds to the other side of the car, opens the car door, and pushes the hair off Jeannette’s face. The beam of light from her phone casts harsh shadows on pallid, slack features. No blood; she just looks passed out. And—at least, judging by her clothes and the lack of a metallic smell—there seem to be no injuries on the rest of her.
“Jeannette!” Sophie calls her name sharply.
Maybe she should call 911?
But what if—what if Jeannette’s already dead? And if she’s already dead—under questionable circumstances—can Sophie trust the police not to pin the death on her?
Goddamn.
Sophie sprints to her car and takes her compact out of her purse. She runs back to Jeannette’s SUV and holds the compact under Jeannette’s nostrils.
Nothing.
She holds it under her own nose. Almost immediately a film of vapors obscures the mirror.
Her fingers shake. She holds the compact right up to Jeannette’s nose. Still nothing. Oh, God. She feels around Jeannette’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. She places her hand directly over Jeannette’s chest. It does not rise or fall. And there is no heartbeat.
She should call 911. Or the police. But can she do that without implicating herself? What if Jeannette left behind notes at home or on her devices? What if as soon as the police start the investigation, they find Jeannette’s musings on the greedy librarian who stole another woman’s child?
Low wails penetrate her consciousness. It’s her, keening in fear.
She dashes back into her own car again. Holding the steering wheel, she forces herself to breathe slowly, deliberately. Okay, she’ll probably still call 911—her conscience will not allow her to just walk away if there’s an offchance that the woman is still alive. But she has to first erase all signs that she’s ever been here.
How? How?
The bag of stuff for park cleanups that’s still in her trunk. She climbs into her back seat and grabs it from the cargo area. Among other things, the bag contains two pairs of rubber gloves and a pack of isopropyl alcohol wipes. And—she looks into her purse—her emergency manicure repair kit is there, with its small bottle of acetone.
She takes out her phone and composes a list, looking stuff up as she goes.
Wipe down Jeannette’s left wrist, face, neck, leg—and any other part that I touched—with alcohol and acetone.
Wipe car door handles and any other part of the car I might have touched with alcohol, acetone, and a good rub with tissue.
Unlock her phone with her thumbprint and remove her phone from her car.
Use her phone to text 911 and give her location.
Disconnect battery from her phone and turn it off.
