Page 50 of The Eleventh Hour
“Yes. Richard is…Edward Harmons’ business partner, but he’s a workaholic. Always has been. This is who he is.”
Dane comes out from between the shelves and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. It looks good on him. I jerk my eyes away and catch Rafe grinning at me.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, I was just wondering-”
“There’s nothing there,” Dane snaps. “Let’s go.”
Rafe makes an annoyed sound. “Are you ready to go? Repeat after me. Are you ready to go?”
Dane gives him a puzzled look. “Yeah, let’s go.”
“Dane. Try…harder.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I press my lips together and watch the two of them. I want this kind of relationship, where I can be myself. Rafe and Dane don’t realise how lucky they are. It causes a twisting pain in my chest. I put my hands in my pockets and pretend to watch the librarian.
“Wait a second.” I grab Dane’s arm and pull.
I stop when I realise what I’ve done and turn to see him staring at my hand on his arm. I drop it instantly and back up.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he mutters and brushes past me.
I follow him but abruptly turn and detour to the counter. An old woman peers up at me with coke-bottle glasses that make her eyes look ten sizes too big. Her wispy hair is tied neatly in a bun. If I dyed her hair red and smoothed out those wrinkles, I’d have recognised her in a minute. How did I miss it the first time?
“Mrs Brass?”
“Ms Brass, yes, that’s me.”
Hearing her voice drags me right back to my childhood.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about a student that used to come here.”
She glances up, and the shrewd intelligence I discredited in my youth is still there. Her mind is razor sharp.
I hold out one of the books with the drawings in it. “I’m an artist, and I’ve been hunting down an unknown artist that used to come here and draw in the books.”
She takes the book and strokes the pages, her eyes turning soft. “They were wrong about him. He was such a sweet young man, he could never have done what they said he did.” She taps the side on her nose. “You ask me, it was the woman.”
I die a little on the inside. Shame rises like a tidal river to drown me. Even here, even here, they blame me.
“He disappeared,” she says softly. “He was such a good boy.”
“Did the police ever talk to you?”
“Oh, no, dear. Why would they think I had any information?”
I chew my lip and decide to press my luck. “Do you know his name?”
Her eyebrows snap down, and she closes the book and places it under the counter. “Are you a policewoman?”
I shake my head.
“Journalist?”