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“I understand that.”

“Do you?” I glare at him. “Because it feels as though you’re asking me to trust you while you keep making sure I can’t judge any of this for myself.”

He stays quiet. The guard behind us remains visible through the rear window, his headlights appearing and disappearing around the bends. Murphy is asleep in his carrier by the time the lake comes into view between the trees.

Most of the shops on Main Street are closed by the time we reach Aldermere. Andrei parks across from The Book Corner, where one lamp is still on near the long table. From here, I can see the cartons Birdie has been searching through, and I reach for my seat belt before he turns off the engine.

Harris meets us beneath the awning, his jacket zipped against the rain. The scrape near the rear lock has been covered for now, but I see it as I follow Andrei around the side of the building. Cole stands near the alley entrance, watching the street beyond us.

“Birdie’s inside,” Harris says. “She hasn’t touched another carton since she called you.”

“Good.” I look past him toward the light by the long table. “I want to see exactly what Connor left.”

Andrei carries Murphy’s carrier while I open the rear door. The familiar smell of books and paper meets me as I step inside. I turn on the lights behind the counter, and the built-in shelves come into view, followed by the long oak table and five cartons gathered beside it.

Birdie hurries down from the apartment. A pencil is tucked behind one ear, and her auburn hair has escaped its knot in several places. She reaches the bottom step, then notices Murphy’s carrier in Andrei’s hand.

“I thought you might leave Murphy there for the night,” she says.

“He would have filed a complaint,” I tell her.

“He would have written it himself if Sofia gave him a pen.” Birdie takes the carrier from Andrei and opens it. Murphy walks out, circles her boots without acknowledging her greeting, and goes directly to Andrei.

Andrei bends enough to let him sniff his fingers. Murphy rubs his cheek against the side of Andrei’s hand, then follows him toward the table.

Birdie watches them. “Your cat has chosen the most dangerous person in the room.”

“Murphy’s judgment has always been questionable.”

“I can hear both of you,” Andrei says, reaching down to scratch Murphy’s head.

Birdie gives me a look, but the humor leaves her face as soon as I approach the cartons. Their cardboard sides are softened from use, and strips of white tape run across the tops. Mystery. Children’s. General Fiction. Connor’s handwriting appears on several labels. On the carton nearest my knee, two words are written in thick black marker.

First Pages.

I touch the corner of the label. Connor has heard me explain the habit I inherited from our grandmother so many times that he used to ask whether I planned to read the first page of the phone directory. He wouldn’t have written those words for the fundraiser organizer or for Birdie.

“He helped unload them on Monday,” Birdie says. “The organizer remembered because Connor carried the heavy cartons in first. He offered to label them so we’d know which came from the school drive.”

“Did anyone see what he put inside?”

“She didn’t know he’d opened any of the cartons.” Birdie glances toward Harris. “The assistant was here when I arrived. Once the last customers left, I closed early and sent her home. Harris and Cole checked the building before I started.”

Harris points to the carton. “We photographed the open flaps and the books visible at the top. Birdie found the writing in the third hardcover she examined.”

Birdie hands me an old book with a worn cloth cover. I open it to the inside front cover and see the five account numbers again. They look different on the page than they did on my phone. Connor pressed hard enough with his pen to leave marks in the paper, and the final two letters sit alone below the numbers.

“Rick Whitmore,” Andrei says beside me.

I run my thumb along the edge of the cover, careful not to touch the writing. “I keep thinking there’s another Rick at the bank.”

“Is there?” he asks.

“Not one Connor mentioned.” I close the book and hold it against my chest. “What happens to Rick when he comes to your vineyard tomorrow?”

Birdie looks between us. Harris remains near the rear door, close enough to hear. Andrei notices my glance and leads me a few steps toward the empty children’s reading nook.

“We ask him about the accounts,” he says. “We ask when he received the alert about Connor’s card and who sent it to him.”