An image of a mundane computer lab popped up on my phone. The wall was plastered with photocopied signs about how to use the lab—sign in, time slots, helpful dos and don’ts—and dire warnings about not falling for scams. A couple of high schoolers looked to be gaming. A middle-aged woman was laughing at something on her screen. And Boswell was in the far corner, pecking furiously at the keyboard as he glared at the monitor.
I doubted he was leaving another crackpot review, if Sarah was still in the driver’s seat.
“Can I see what he’s typing?” I asked Records.
“No can do. Privacy law.”
I only laughed on the inside.
I could get there pretty quick—Sundays were easy to begin with and the roads are particularly dead during an out-of-town game—and maybe I could catch them. But I’d have to hustle. I hung up with Records and told Jacob, “Whatever you do, don’t let Sarah’s body leave.” We both looked at the couch. The body threw a handful of microwave popcorn at the TV and swore like a sailor at the referee. “Watch out for halftime, if she gets bored she might take off.”
“I should be the one to go after Boswell.”
“You literally just said you trusted me.”
Jacob pressed his lips into a thin line, then sighed. “I’ll be sure to hide all the scissors.” Our eyes went immediately to the knife set on the countertop…which Jacob grabbed and shoved out of reach in the highest cabinet shelf.
I was at the library in no time flat, and was more relieved than I ever thought I’d be to see a certain van. It was parked cockeyed. Because someone was being careless? Or in a hurry? Or because they didn’t have much experience driving a van of that size…and possessing a body that didn’t quite fit, too?
I counted myself lucky the library was open on Sundays, otherwise, who knows where Sarah would have taken Boswell? The woman at the counter greeted me with a chipper hello as I walked in, and I caught sight of my own reflection in a study room window—tall and dark-suited with a scowl on my face.
Librarians are made of stern stuff.
“Where are the computers?” I asked her.
“The stations with the red signs are self-check. The blue signs are library catalog only, that’s where you can search the collection or place holds. If you want internet access, there’s a lab on the second floor.” I was already heading for the stairs. “But you’ll need a library card to sign in,” she called after me.
“Okay, thanks,” I tossed over my shoulder. Hopefully I wasn’t already too late.
On the second floor, I found myself wading through a kids’ section, mostly a mess of toys, with preschoolers shrieking around a train set while their moms chatted on a nearby couch, oblivious to the volume. I barely avoided skating across the room on a chunky wooden caboose.
Like everything else in the library, the layout was color-coded and labeled. I made my way through a “teen” room where a bunch of high schoolers hunched in surly silence, thumbing through manga. And then past a dozen spinner racks of dog-eared magazines. Finally, I turned the corner into the computer lab (helpfully marked with a massive sign).
And it looked just like it had through the CCTV. Except now the laughing woman was shaking her head…and I was able to circumvent the so-called “privacy” and see she was watching cat videos. I passed her and the gaming teenagers and crept up to Boswell, unsure if it was still Sarah at the helm, or if she’d left him to his own devices.
“What’s up?” I said casually.
Smooth.
Boswell shot me a disdainful look—again, could’ve been either one—and said, “These pictures are like a year old. What iswrongwith Zach?”
“Pictures, where? On Facebook?”
Boswell gave me anOkay, Boomereye-roll that hadSarahwritten all over it. “Insta.” She moved over a skooch so that I could pull up a chair, even though the helpful library signage read1 Person Per Station. “See this handbag? I sold it at a consignment shop last fall.”
I glanced at her ex’s profile: @sledgehammer2001.Ugh. The photo in question showed him and Sarah at a Starbucks, toasting each other with the first pumpkin spice latte of the season. It was a selfie taken by him, angled so his biceps looked approximately as big around as my thigh. Sarah was making a duck face. There was an edge of something that might or might not have been a purse in the corner.
The date stamp on the post was last week.
“So he’s acting like you’re still involved. Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s Zach, that’s why.”
“How come you’re—” I almost saidstalking“—checking up on his socials?”
Sarah clucked Boswell’s tongue. “Because I need to know where he is.”
“Okay. That makes sense. But your best bet would be to let me handle it if you want to avoid him.”
