Connelly takes her hand as they start down the brick sidewalk. They walk in silence for a block, past more pastel row houses, a corner market closed for the night, and a small park where someone has tied colorful ribbons to the iron fence. Neither speaks until they’ve turned the corner onto a side street.
“So,” Sasha says. “Get anything?”
“He comes across as a normal person dealing with normal stressors.”
“I thought so, too. Him and his wife.”
He nods. “They’re young, broke, and about to have a baby. He’s only taking a week off when the baby comes. Says they need the money.”
She knows they’re both thinking the same thing: financial problems can be a great motivator for people to make not-so-great life choices.
He goes on. “Good instincts on the board books, by the way. They both seemed touched by the gift.”
“That reminds me, Emmaline said he did a reading at that bookstore when his novel was released, so I told him I’m reading it right now. He very obviously didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Modesty?”
“Maybe. Or something else.” She thinks about the way his expression shuttered. “He doesn’t read like someone who’s proud of what he’s written.”
“I picked up on that, too. Imposter syndrome? First-time author?”
She shrugs. “Could be. I’m volunteering at the library starting Monday.”
“That was fast.”
“Linda, the librarian, is very friendly. She’s been around the school forever, apparently. She says the kids gossip a lot.”
“Useful contact.”
“Extremely. I’m going to rope her into helping me with the gala. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
He chuckles. “Always playing an angle.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“She’s writing a book, too.”
“Who is?”
“Linda. It’s nonfiction about the changes in the American and Russian intelligence agencies after the Cold War ended.”
“That’s …”
“Interesting?” he supplies.
She shrugs. “I was going to say niche.”
They walk in silence for another block. The street is quiet except for their footsteps on the brick sidewalk and the distant hum of traffic on Wisconsin Avenue.
A rat darts across their path and disappears into a hedge. She remembers the rats from her Georgetown days and suppresses a shudder. It’s what happens when you squish an entire city into about sixty square miles of land. Rats.
They cross an intersection. A few blocks ahead, traffic flows on Wisconsin Avenue , still busy even at this hour.
The rental house is dark except for the porch light they left on and the blue flicker of the television coming from the family room.
“Kids are still up,” Connelly observes.
“Of course they are.”
