“So no more double duty then.”
“No, thank God. If you haven’t noticed, it’s much quieter here.”
“No snotty kids shoving oversized books into the book drop.”
“No book drop at all. It’s bliss,” she said. “Oh, here it is... well, that’s depressing.”
Whit leaned onto the counter, and Merritt turned the screen so they could both see it. “A billionaire,” she said. “Some tech person. He bought it for nearly a million dollars. And it says here he keeps it in a display case in his home office. Perfect for a heist, if you’re in the mood for a little...”
“Where did the auction money go?” he asked rather than playing along.
“A children’s, uh, cancer thing.”
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, that’s good. That’s good.”
He looked like he was watching a video replay in front of him, maybe trying to piece the memory of these events back together.
“Why do you need the book?” Merritt asked after a moment.
“Oh, I don’t think I do anymore, not if no one’s read it. But I’m... well, I’m writing the book for her. For Helen. The last book in the series. And I saw this Post-it note in her office the last time I was in there that said something like ‘giant baby story important question mark,’ and I could only just remember that shehadwritten another thing about a giant—anyway, I suppose it’snotimportant, so that’s good.”
This was a lot to process, but Merritt just nodded and tried to make her face more neutral than her brain. The serieswasn’talready finished? The press releases had made it sound like Helen’s husband was merely editing a pristine, preexisting manuscript, but this question about the baby giant, and that statement—“I’mwritingthe book for her”—these things did not sound like the words of a man putting the finishing touches on an extant masterpiece.
Merritt forced herself to say something.
“Well then, I guess no heist. Which is a shame.”
“A real shame,” he agreed. “You seem like you’re good in high-pressure scenarios. Anyway, thank you for your help.”
She looked at him, standing there in the sweater and pants that matched her own, and she thought he did look sad, and yes, tired, but there was something else there, too. He seemed thoughtful and observant and determined. But, she wondered, did he seem like a man who could successfully land this literary plane he’d been tasked with piloting?
“You’re welcome.” She smiled softly. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
He nodded at her. “I will. Truly, I might have more questions, and you seem like you might know the answers. Thanks again.”
The bell tinkled a second time, but the door didn’t close.
“Oh, and...” Whit said, turning back to look at her with one hand on the frame.
“Yes?” she called from across the store.
“What’s your name?”
The question caught her off guard, so much so that she paused, giving Whit room to explain himself. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Ms.Pryor’ in my head.”
She laughed at that. “Please don’t. It’s Merritt.”
He nodded once, his mouth in another almost-smile. “Well. Goodbye, Merritt.”
“Goodbye.”
The door closed, and from somewhere inpersonal growth, Huong let out a longhmm.
“Don’t start,” Merritt said as she watched Whit walk down the windy street.
One of the things Merritt missed about Texas was all the driving. She made it through so many audiobooks and podcasts just commuting back and forth between her apartment and campus, and she became one of those people who could guess different NPR newscasters before they’d said their names.Lakshmi Singh!she would recite to herself in her beat-up Nissan Versa.Korva Coleman!
So on days like this, when she found herself missing, if not the commute itself, thesoundsof the commute, she’d put her earbuds in and pull up the local public radio station, which, she admittedonly to herself, was not as good as the one she’d grown to love back in Texas.
