The paneled wood study door was half open. Through the crack, she spotted the bookshelves—floor to ceiling—and her heart skipped.
Andrew led the way, and Felicity stopped in her tracks as her gaze fell over what had to be Henry’s desk. A worn leather chair was scooted up to it, and every artifact on the desk from the leather blotter to a small photo frame left her heart aching for her friend.
Then her gaze fell on the corner of the big mahogany desk. On the battered, leather-bound journal.
The journal Henry sent in the box of books.
The journal stolen from her car.
She froze, ice in her veins.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
His gaze dropped to the journal, then slid back to her face with disconcerting interest. “You’re smart. You figure it out.”
“You stole it.” The words tasted of metal. “From my car. Parked behind my shop. In Willowbrook.”
He shrugged as if it were an errand, not a violation. “I know about his bonds. You have them now.”
Her heart pounded her ribs so loud she wondered if Gabe could hear it—wherever he was.
If he was even at the airport.
Panic clawed up her throat.
Andrew laughed softly. “You think I didn’t know what was in that safe-deposit box? My uncle isn’t going to die and leave me shortchanged. I know he kept the key in a book. He shipped books out to a lot of places. Some museums, some libraries that he donated to regularly. Some old friends.” His eyes narrowed.
She backed up a step. He advanced a step in response.
“I found out what was sent and where,” Andrew continued as if they were chatting about the weather. “It wasn’t that hard. Tracing shipment confirmations from his emails, following the tracking numbers. I saw the name of your store. My uncle thought he was being smart sending his books to a bookstore.” He tapped his temple with a fingertip. “He thought he’d throw me off. But I’m smarter.”
Bile bubbled in the pit of her stomach.
“I had to break into a lot of houses to find all the things he shipped out to friends. Then I asked myself why he’d ship to a store. That’s when I realized he sent them to you.” He smiled, small and sharp.
Felicity’s mouth had gone dry. “How—” Her voice gave out. “How many houses did you break into?”
He sighed, almost theatrically. “More than I’d have liked. You wouldn’t believe how many friends my uncle sent books to.”
Her stomach lurched.
Gabe was right about Andrew.A sick, dizzying wave rolled through her.
She backed toward the door. “I think I should go.”
He moved faster than she expected. His hand clamped around her wrist, fingers biting into her skin. She gasped, stumbling.
“Let me go!” She tried to yank free, but his fingers tightened, bruising under his grip. “Andrew, you’re hurting me—”
“I don’t have time for delicate feelings, Felicity.” His veneer of charm cracked clean through. “You have something that belongs to me. The key, if you please.”
He shoved her hard toward the chair Henry used to occupy. The place where he took phone calls and sat penning notes.
And writing in that journal.
She tried to twist away, to kick out,anything,but he was stronger, fueled by a long-simmering desperation.
“Sit!”
