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Rage flashed across Boone’s face. He got up and went to the desk he’d been rifling through. There was a small brown bag sitting on it I hadn’t noticed before. He grabbed it and thrust the thing out to me.

“You mean this book?” he asked.

Without breaking my stare, I pulled the book out of the bag. It was a copy of The Traveler’s Guide to Oblivion, the one I’d seen in Boone’s lobby.

“Raven told me she caught you trying to steal that,” he said, taking his seat back. “Why do you want it?”

“You’re going to play dumb? I think you know exactly why I wanted it and why you have it in the first place.”

“I didn’t even know I did have it. I’m not running a library. I don’t have a running inventory of the books on that shelf. Raven stocked it. She grabbed books from all over the place. Ninety percent of them are just ones with covers in colors she liked. I swear, I didn’t even know that thing was in there.”

“Raven put it there,” I repeated. “That’s about as thin an excuse as your dog eating your homework, Boone.”

“Believe me if you want, or don’t. I asked her where she got it. She said it was in the storage unit. You know, the one I took you to. You’ve seen it. I keep lots of stuff in there. Most of it belonged to my grandfather. Half the books in my lobby were part of his collection. Raven’s the one who helped me organize everything. There was so much stuff, I couldn’t even inventory it. The prison sent over a couple of boxes after my dad died. One of them had books in it. I think Raven just mixed it all up.”

“You’re saying you think this book belonged either to your father or his father?” My head spun trying to organize the possibilities that opened.

“That wasn’t my grandpa’s book. He had a stamp. You know, the kind that leaves a raised mark on paper. He used it on every book he owned. He lent them out a lot and wanted to keep track.”

I flipped through the book; there was no such marking.

“So it’s your father’s then,” I said, feeling the air leach from me. Was I holding Derrek Sidney’s personal copy of The Traveler’s Guide?

“Yes. Unless someone just left it there. Like a client or something.”

Sure. That was possible, too. But as I held the book, it was as if I could feel a sinister aura around it. I just ... knew.

“Why did you bring this to me?” I asked.

“How many times do I have to tell you? If I can help you help Geneva, I want to. Look, Raven threw a fit when I told her I was driving up here. She thinks you’re trying to frame me for something my dad did. Or she thinks you’re either trying to sell a story or you want to write another crappy book about my dad.”

“She thinks I’m after money?” I asked. “Do you?”

“I hope not. I’ll sue you if you try to drag me into it.”

“I’m not writing a book.”

“Then what? What’s so special about that book? After Raven handed it to me, I tried to read it. I couldn’t get into it. It’s overwritten, self-indulgent crap. I’m actually surprised my dad had it. People are wrong about him. He was smart. Well read. Sophisticated. He knew about art. I’m not saying that to prop him up. I know what he also was. You think I don’t wake up every morning wondering if there’s something wrong with me too because of him? Anyway, that book? I don’t get why my dad would spend the time on something like that. It’s obvious he did though.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s all dog-eared. And he was writing notes in the margins.”

“He what?”

I walked back over to the unoccupied reception desk and turned on the lamp. Boone came up to me. He took the book from me and flipped to a page in the middle. Then he handed it back to me.

“See? That’s the other reason I know this was Derrek’s. I recognize his handwriting.”

I did see. A chill went down my spine. I might not have noticed it if I hadn’t been looking for it. But Derrek Sidney’s copy of The Traveler’s Guide was extensively marked up. Almost every line had small hash marks through letters, or faint numbers above them. Several pages had once been dog-eared. When I flipped to any one of them, those pages had been marked up the worst. Then I remembered the letters in Derrek’s possession. So many of them had similar odd superscripts. All numbers. It couldn’t be a coincidence. My heart thundered as I thought of the possibilities.

“Does it mean anything to you?” Boone asked. “I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

“No,” I said. “Neither can I. At least not yet. Will you let me keep this? If you’re really worried about what I think of you, if you truly want to help Geneva, I need time to study your dad’s copy of this book.”

If he snatched it away from me, it would answer the only question that mattered about Boone Sidney.

“Of course,” he said, with no hesitation. “I meant what I said. I want to help figure out what happened to Geneva Bell more than anyone. Keep it as long as you like. Keep it forever. If that book had anything to do with a crime my father committed, I never want to touch it again.”