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I needed to be moving as well. My ability to think better while on my feet was a trait that came straight through my Gale bloodline.

“It’s possible,” I admitted. “Boone could have been stringing me along this whole time. I suppose it’s even possible he’s the one who committed the Deadwater Lake murders. But he was questioned extensively. He had an alibi.”

“How hard were the cops really looking at him, though? How thorough were they in verifying that alibi? People can make mistakes. Holland might have had tunnel vision, too. If he’s been so convinced Geneva was the one lying.”

“If he did, it’s not a simple mistake, Dad. It would have been biblical.”

I felt a jolt of adrenaline. As if some synapse in my brain fired but my reason hadn’t yet caught up with its meaning.

“Biblical,” I repeated.

“Sure,” Dad said. “You’re right. A big mistake, but what does that ...”

“Biblical,” I said for the third time. “Think. Derrek Sidney was allowed to keep a copy of a book sent to him from someone on the outside. Just a book. There was no possibility that he could use it as a physical weapon. It would have been viewed as harmless. Prisoners are allowed to keep books in their cells routinely, right?”

“In some cases, yes. They even have libraries where they can be checked out.”

“Those would be marked, though, right? Like a library stamp?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I could find out. But why?”

“Bibles,” I said. “It’s safe to assume that’s one of the most common books a prisoner would have access to, right? Like a lot of people would probably want to keep a copy with them at all times, right?”

“Sure,” Dad said. He slowly took his seat.

I scanned the bookshelf behind me. I knew Dad had his own copy somewhere. I remembered it had a red binding with old embossed letters.

“There,” I said, spotting it. I went on my tiptoes and brought it down. I knew Dad could quote chapter and verse to some extent.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son …”

“John 3:16,” Dad said slowly, picking up my line of thought.

“Book, chapter, verse,” I said.

“Okaay.” I could see the flicker in Dad’s eyes. He knew what I meant.

“Eight hundred and seventeen,” I said. “Of all the superscripts handwritten between the lines of this book, eight hundred and seventeen was the highest number I found.”

Dad wasn’t quite following me. “Dad,” I said. “Look at the book again. There are eight hundred and seventeen pages. What if it’s page, line, word or something like that?”

He lunged forward and grabbed one of the letters. He held it up and rattled off three numbers. “One, twelve, four.”

“Page one, line twelve, fourth word in from the left if you’re reading left to right,” I repeated. Then I picked up The Traveler’s Guide and went to page one, line twelve, word four.

“There’s a place,” I read.

Dad rattled off the next grouping of three numbers. I flipped to the page, line, and word from Sherman’s book.

“If you can,” I read.

Three more numbers.

“Find a way.”

Three more.

“I can help you.”