Instead, she gestures to a cart loaded with returns. “Why don’t you start by shelving these? It’s the best way to learn where everything is. I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.”
Sasha begins shelving, working methodically through the cart. She pays attention to the flow of students, noting who comes in alone, who comes in groups, which sections are most popular. It’s more out of habit than any real need to know this information.
She’s three-quarters through the cart when Caleb Rye enters the library. He waves to Linda, then heads to carrel seven.
Sasha continues shelving, angling herself so she can observe him without being obvious.
Caleb pulls out a large Moleskine notebook and flips it open to a page marked with a sticky tab. He uncaps his pen and stares down at this open page.
His phone rings. He glances at the screen, then steps into the hallway to take the call.
Sasha can hear his tone through the open door. It’s urgent, strained.
She moves closer, pretending to shelve a book on the nearest shelf. She catches fragments.
“Biz, I haven’t decided yet ... I know, but Emmaline’s about to ... yes, I understand timing matters …”
Sasha edges toward the carrel. From this angle, she can see his notebook. She wishes he didn’t have such cramped writing, though. She makes out a handful of words. Another thriller. Lit fic. Windows. College fund. Serious. And then, underlined twice, What if it’s a repeat of Turkey?
She pulls out her phone, opens the camera app, frames the shot and?—
“I have to go,” Caleb says in the hallway. “I’ll let you know soon.”
She slips between the shelves just as he returns to the carrel. Her heart hammers. She glances at her phone. The picture is blurry. The angle isn’t quite right. She can make out some of the words but not all of them.
“Finding everything all right?”
She nearly drops her phone. Linda has appeared beside her, silent as a cat.
“Yes,” Sasha manages. “Just getting oriented.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” She musters up a smile.
After Linda walks off, Sasha glances back toward carrel seven, Caleb is hunched over his notebook, writing furiously. She’s missed her window.
Chapter Eleven
The faculty café is smaller than Leo expected, and louder. Twenty or so teachers crammed into a room designed for fifteen, all talking over each other about lesson plans and student drama and an upcoming accreditation review.
Leo navigates to the coffee station and pours himself a cup that looks like it’s been sitting since this morning. He’s searching for a place to sit when Caleb appears at his elbow.
“You can sit with us,” Caleb says, gesturing to a table by the window where two other teachers are already eating. “If you want. No pressure.”
“Thanks.”
They join the table. Caleb introduces him to the others—Sarah, the math teacher he met at Abigail’s, and an art teacher whose name Leo immediately forgets. The conversation flows around him, and he lets it, observing the dynamics. Who defers to whom, who interrupts, who stays quiet.
Caleb is quiet. Eats his sandwich methodically, contributes when directly asked a question, otherwise just listens.
After a few minutes, Sarah and art teacher excuse themselves to make photocopies before the next period.
Caleb turns to Leo. “How was your first morning?”
“Good. These students are sharp, engaged. Tough crowd.”
Caleb half-smiles. “Wait until you try to teach them the Cold War. They all have opinions. Their parents lived it.”
