Thad is smiling, too, though now I see it no longer reaches his eyes, which are noticeably crinkle-free. “I’m not much of a reader, actually. But I had to find some reason to be in the library so much.”
I feel almost as though I’m being steered into a script, but I don’t know how to escape it. “Why did you need a reason to be in the library?” I ask dutifully, dreading the answer.
“To watch you.” Thad holds my gaze, his blue-gray eyes no longer bright but dimmed, blank. “I’ve been looking for your brother, Helen. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I need you to help me find him.”
And whatever sliver of shiny little hope I had snuffs out for good as the dread of those words sinks in.
Chapter 8
Thad
If this were a noir, Helen would play it coy—bite her lip, give me big, sultry bedroom eyes across the cafe table as she hems and haws about her brother’s whereabouts, playing whatever games she can to throw me off the scent.
I know this isn’t a noir, know that I need to stay focused and present if I’m going to find Dean Flanagan in time, but it’s difficult not to let my mind wander when I’m standing so close to Helen. Difficult not to imagine her biting her lip and peering up at me with those big baby blues. Difficult to not be distracted by the formfitting outfit she’s wearing that suggests I wasn’t inaccurate all those times I watched her moving around the library and guessed what her shape was like underneath those loose, baggy sweaters. I got a tantalizing glimpse here and there—her sweater slipping down over one shoulder as she rearranged a ground display, or her sweater riding up as she stacked books on a high shelf, so I could see the full roundness of her ass underneath.
It always made me feel a bit skeevy, truth be told, especially because it’s so obvious she doesn’t want anyone noticing her body. I tried to respect that, not pay her more attention than she’s due as the sister of the man I’m trying to locate, but she makes it damn difficult—the sexy librarian, the femme fatale goddess with a true hourglass shape and a tendency toward biting her full lower lip whenever she’s really focusing on something.
And then tonight…God help me, tonight. I thought it was time to finally make contact with her, and the semipublic setting of the writing group seemed ideal. I didn’t know she’d be reading though, and I certainly didn’t knowwhatshe’d be reading. Listening as Helen took Axel and Rosamund through foreplay into full-on intercourse required a self-discipline I didn’t know I possessed. It was hard not to let my mind cast her in the role of her heroine as she read out loud some truly filthy, lurid stuff. I’m not a prude or anything, but I had no idea romance novels are sodetailed. It puts a whole new spin on those bodice rippers I always saw on my meemaw’s nightstand.
Repressing a shudder at the thought, I reach for my beer. I don’t normally drink when I’m actively on a case, but after the night’s entertainment, I needed something to dull the edges. Something to stop me from imagining the way Helen’s mouth looked when she read the part about Rosamund getting railed against the library bookshelves again and again by Axel’s throbbing cock. The self-conscious little way she tucked her hair behind her ear, that embarrassed-but-pleased glint in her eye as she glanced around the room, like she could hardly believe what she was reading even though she’d been the one to write it, which must mean she’d imagined it, which must mean…
Another sip of the beer. I clear my throat. “When was the last time you saw Dean?” I sound formal and businesslike, which is good, because this is an important case and I can’t afford to screw this up.
Helen holds her hands around her cup of hot cocoa, though I notice she hasn’t actually drunk any of it yet. “Um. Last Christmas, probably?”
“Your family’s not close?” I keep the judgment carefully out of my tone. It’s been longer since I’ve seen my family, so I’m really not casting any stones. It just would be a lot more helpful if the Flanagans were a family who kept tabs on each other.
Helen’s voice is apologetic, like she’s embarrassed to be called out. “I see my parents more often. But Dean’s always…done his own thing.” She gives me her big blues, the worry in them palpable. “What is he into this time?”
I might’ve questioned the “this time,” only I’m too familiar with Dean’s arrest record to mistake the meaning. Dean Flanagan started committing minor felonies when he was fifteen, even spending three months in juvie for vandalism, and his record has been a hodgepodge since then of drug charges, petty larceny, and the like. Then, the last few years his record went silent. In my experience, there are four possible reasons for this: the person is dead, incarcerated, came to Jesus…or they just got much, much better at covering their tracks.
From the tone of Helen’s voice, I’d guess it’s the last option. The family knows he isn’t squeaky-clean, even if they don’t know all the details of what he’s up to.
Still, I don’t want to tip my hand too much. In all likelihood, Helen really doesn’t know what Dean’s mixed up in, but it wouldn’t be the first time a family member’s played dumb with me to feed information back to their loved one. I keep my response intentionally vague: “Illegal gambling.”
Helen reaches up to rub the bridge of her nose, taking in a sharp breath. “Okay. Okay. That’s bad, right? But it’s not like he killed anyone.”
She says it almost hopefully, like she’s waiting for me to confirm it. I’m almost glad I didn’t tell her the rest of it, if only so she won’t know just how much trouble her brother is in. Still, I’ll have to make clear how serious this is. “Let’s just say I’m not the only one looking for him.” At Helen’s blanched face, I add as gently as I can, “Let’s just say other, much-less-friendly people who aren’t just worried about him skipping bail.”
Helen does a quick little cross over herself.
“If there’s anything you know that can help me find him, you need to tell me.” I prompt, “Do you know places he might go? Friends he might stay with?”
Helen shakes her head, looking overwhelmed. “He really doesn’t talk about anything like that around me. Probably because I was a—” Her eyes dart up to mine, something sharp and nervous in them. “—really religious person.”
I pretend to buy that obvious slipup, just to keep her talking. I don’t know if whatever she’s covering up has to do with Dean or not, but there’s definitely something Helen doesn’t want me to know.
“When’s the next time he’ll visit your parents in Boston?”
She flinches a little when I say Boston—probably processing that I really have done my research about her family—but answers anyway: “His birthday, I guess.”
That’s only about a month away, but I don’t know if Dean Flanagan has that long. “You have his phone number, yeah? Could you try texting him?”
Helen’s hands return to the cocoa mug. “I can try. But he’ll think it’s weird. We don’t normally justcatch up. We’re on a family group chat, but that’s mostly just used to coordinate holiday stuff and birthdays.”
“Can you try?” I don’t add onfor me, but I might as well have. The two of us are staring at each other again, that weird, charged thing between us that I don’t quite know how to name. Attraction, sure, but there are plenty of nice-looking girls that don’t make me act like a complete dickwad. Like I’m fifteen again and have never touched a girl’s boobs before and it’s all a beautiful, scary mystery.
Almost as if she’s read the thought, Helen’s eyes dart down to my lips. She bites her own.
