Page 97

“He’ll find another answer.” Andrei moves his hand back to the wheel as the light changes. “We need to know what the records show.”

His tone brings back our argument in his office. Last night he stayed in my bed. This morning he listened to Rick suggest my brother might have run, and afterward he told me to consider it. I know why he asks questions I don’t want to hear. Knowing does little for the ache under my ribs.

I watch the trees go by. His hand rests near mine on the console, but neither of us reaches across the space. I want to tell him I’m still angry. I also want him beside me when I walk into the bank, and both things can be true.

“Grandma used to mend books at the kitchen table,” I say after a while. “Connor tried to help her once. He glued two pages together and said it was a new chapter.”

Andrei almost smiles. “How old was he?”

“Eight. He knew he’d ruined it, but Grandma told him every book could survive a mistake if someone took the time to repair it.” I turn the worn cover over in my hands. “She made him sit with her until the glue dried so he’d see she meant it.”

“He chose one of her books for a reason.”

“He knew I’d never throw it away.” I let out a deep sigh.

Traffic thickens as we reach Seattle. I put the book back in my bag and call Linda from the parking garage beneath the bank. She answers at once and tells us to use the side entrance.

Linda waits near the elevators in a pale blue blouse and dark trousers, her employee badge clipped at her waist. She looks as though she came down mid-work, with a pen tucked behind one ear and a folder held against her chest. When she sees me, she steps away from the wall.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t say more on the phone,” she says. “People were going past my door.”

“You got us here before they finished,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

She opens the folder and hands me a sheet with eight numbers written in a neat column. Four have notes beside them. Three of the first five match Connor’s book, including the one Rick claimed to recognize. I show Andrei without letting go of the paper.

“Where did you find this?” I ask Linda.

“In Connor’s work queue. He saved a list of files to review, and I copied the account numbers before facilities took his computer.” She points to two entries near the bottom. “These were added on Monday. I don’t know what he found in them.”

Andrei takes a photograph and sends it to Reid. “Do you know whether the computer has been wiped or reassigned?”

“No. They disconnected it and put it with the boxes.”

“Show us,” he says.

Linda leads us upstairs. The familiar bank hallway looks different with two cardboard boxes outside Connor’s office. I came here last week hoping he had walked into work. Today the door stands open, and a man in a gray facilities shirt lifts a stack of folders from a shelf. Connor’s desk is bare except for a lamp and a square of darker wood where his computer sat.

“That’s Connor’s,” I say, pointing to the mug on the windowsill. A faded drawing of a sailboat is on the side. “I gave it to him after he told me he hated boats.”

Linda manages a brief smile. “He used it every day.”

The facilities worker looks from me to Linda. “Am I supposed to stop?”

“Please leave what’s here until we know what’s being preserved,” Linda tells him. She speaks firmly, though her fingers press into the edge of her folder.

Andrei stays beside the open door. “Who told you to clear this room?”

“I got a work order,” the man says. “My supervisor sent us up.”

“Where are the other boxes?” Andrei asks.

“Storage on this floor. Nothing’s gone off-site.”

I walk to the desk without touching the folders. Connor once sent me a photograph from this room because a small plant on his shelf had grown a crooked new leaf. The plant is gone. The sailboat mug remains. I have no idea why one matters more than the other until I imagine a stranger dropping both into a box marked OFFICE.

“His personal things should stay together,” I tell Linda. “If you make a list of what’s packed, I can tell you what belongs to him.”

“We’ll keep a record,” she says.