Page 5

“Maybe she works for a rival bank.”

“Now he’s involved in financial espionage?” I ask.

Birdie lifts one shoulder. “It’s Seattle. I assume bankers have hobbies.”

A laugh escapes me, and Birdie smiles in triumph. I pick up an old detective novel but don’t open it. Ordinarily, I would invent three theories before the first line, but today every question leads back to Connor.

He is three minutes younger, a fact I’ve used to claim superior wisdom for thirty-two years, though he inherited Dad’s mathematical mind and enough patience for both of us. When we were children, I climbed trees first, and Connor tested the branches. I ran toward every locked door because I wanted to know what waited behind it, and he followed with a plan for getting us home before Mom noticed.

He calls when Dad has a bad day at Oak Grove, and neither of us knows how to admit it hurts. He remembers Mom’s hiking jokes without making them painful, and when Grandma died, he was already driving toward Aldermere before I dialed.

Connor always answers, which is why his silence feels so wrong.

The afternoon brings a rush of customers that should keep me occupied. Two tourists ask for books about local trails, a teenager buys a fantasy novel with money counted from a jar, and Mr. Talbot campaigns for a shelf of fishing memoirs. I recommend three titles, locate a missing special order beneath Murphy’s stomach, and call Connor twice more, only to reach voicemail both times.

By four, fine rain paints the front windows and turns the mountains into gray outlines beyond Lake Alder. Main Street glows beneath shop awnings, while brass reading lamps brighten the aisles and turn the children’s nook beneath the stairs into a cave of gold cushions and painted stars.

Normally, this is my favorite hour. The town slows outside while the bookstore draws inward, and I can see my grandmother everywhere, from her handwritten category cards to the step stool she painted red after tripping over it twice.

Today, every chime above the door makes me look up, although Connor lives ninety minutes away and would call before appearing.

Birdie sells another restored piece, a small oak side table named Mildred, to a couple from Tacoma. Murphy supervises from the mystery shelves, where his tail hangs over the edge like an orange feather boa. When Birdie carries Mildred toward the door, he follows her progress with narrowed eyes, apparently concerned she is removing store property without his approval.

“You signed the release,” she reminds him on her way back.

Murphy licks one paw.

“I have witnesses.”

“He’ll deny everything,” I tell her.

“He can speak to my attorney.” Birdie removes the pencil from behind her ear and scribbles the sale in her notebook. “My attorney is also a cat, so proceedings may take a while.”

I lean against the counter and open my messages again. No new reply appears beneath the text I sent at lunch.

Me: Are you home? Call me.

Before that sits the message from nine this morning.

Me: You missed work. Are you sick?

And above it, from last night.

Me: Sorry I missed you. Everything okay?

Each line looks more worried than the last. I may be handing fear a spotlight and inviting it onto a stage. Connor could be asleep with a fever, his phone could be lost, or he could have taken an impulsive trip, although Connor considers changing grocery stores an impulsive trip.

None of those explanations fit.

I’ve felt sure of this since I woke up before dawn and reached for my phone. The feeling sits in my chest, a steady pull that won’t accept any reasonable excuse.

Birdie closes her notebook. “Talk to me.”

“You’re going to tell me not to panic.”

“I might be developing new material.”

I rub my thumb over the locket again, following the tiny curve of the heart. “I can feel that he’s in trouble.”