Recognition lights up the man’s eyes. “Oh, yes.”
“Well, he couldn’t make it, so I’m here for him. The books came from the both of us.”
“Come on in.”
She follows him as he carefully descends the stairs. The musty smell of books fills the space like a lit candle.
“The name’s Nicholas,” he says. “Do you want to look around, Taylor, or have a seat? I need to take care of something in the back, and then I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Sure, yeah.”
He shuffles off, leaving Taylor alone. She reverts to her default survival mode, noting the egress routes. It’s almost comforting to complete this surveillance—to havesomethingto do. But then it’s done, and she’s surrounded once more with her confusing reality.
In a daze, she takes in the collection of old books that surround her.
Stories. That’s what her mom was—a story. A fictional story. Taylor didn’t know her, not really.
Tears spring unexpectedly to her eyes, and she rummages through her purse for a tissue. Her fingers brush against the phoenix mask; Liam gave her the one he’d stuffed in the couch, as it got too crinkled, and they had extras.Maybe you can repurpose those feathers, sew them on a jacket or something, he’d said.
Nicholas’s voice filters from the back space; is he on the phone?
What Liam did was a kind gesture, but she doesn’t know if she can trust him—if she can trust any of them. Jerry knew she was a nurse.The Knoxknew.
Who screamed? Was someone in the fourth-floor window, or were my eyes playing tricks on me?
Why didn’t my dad tell me the truth?
Who was my mom?
Nicholas returns, unfolds a cloth on the counter, and then momentarily disappears. She hears a faucet running, and this time when he comes back, he has a book in his hands. He places it gently down on the cloth. It’s smaller than a typical book, more like the size of a diary, with a fragile-looking leather cover.
“Come, Taylor,” he says. “I want to show you the book your friend brought me. It’s…unique.”
“Unique?” she repeats.
“Unbelievably so.”
Her stomach flutters. Unique must mean valuable. Maybe Jerry was right about this old stuff.
“Do you know Latin?” Nicholas asks, and she shakes her head. He points to the book cover. “This title,Opii Pericula, is Latin forDangers of Opium.”
“Dangers of Opium,” she repeats. It’s the second time today the drug’s come up; that feels somehow important.
“The author is Edgar Rolo Butterworth, which happens to be an anagram of a person named Robert Walter Thurgood. And look here”—he flips forward to the dedication—“ ‘Matri meae causis manifestis,’ meaning, ‘To My Mother, for obvious reasons.’ ”
“Huh.” Taylor is flummoxed.Why is he telling me this?
Nicholas must see the confusion in her eyes. He gently closes the cover. “I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.”
The door chime rings, and Taylor turns to see a pretty, fortyish-year-old woman in a tan trench coat flouncing down the stairs.
“Nicholas, thank you for calling. I got here as soon as I could.” She turns to Taylor, sticking out her hand. “Hello. My name is Rachel.”
Taylor hesitantly takes her hand. Rachel’s not smiling, andTaylor doesn’t get the warmest vibe from her. Who is she? Maybe a co-owner of the bookstore? “I’m Taylor.”
“You work at the Knox, Taylor?” Rachel asks.
“Yes,” Taylor replies, and then instantly feels guarded. Should she be admitting she works at the Knox, or is that violating her confidentiality agreement? Truth be told, she didn’t really read that thing. Jerry clearly did, though.
