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CASSIE

Murphy waits until Mrs. Ellison has paid for two mysteries, declined a bag, and turned toward the door before he extends one enormous orange paw across the checkout counter. His amber eyes remain fixed on her departing back as he sweeps an entire stack of laminated bookmarks onto the floor.

They scatter across the old hardwood in a bright fan of mountains, rain clouds, teacups, and one smug-looking raven. Mrs. Ellison pauses beneath the brass bell, glances over her shoulder, and finds Murphy sitting beside the empty display as if the mess has appeared through an act of weather.

“I think he wanted you to pet him,” I tell her, crouching to gather the bookmarks.

Mrs. Ellison studies Murphy’s fluffy orange coat, nicked left ear, and expression of deep personal offense. “He hissed at me last Tuesday.”

“That was last Tuesday. He believes in second chances, provided everyone else does the apologizing.”

Murphy narrows his eyes at her. Mrs. Ellison laughs, promises to consider an apology during her next visit, and steps onto Main Street. The bell gives one cheerful ring above her head, which feels far too pleasant for the judgment Murphy sends after her.

Birdie leans around a tower of cardboard boxes near the used-book table. Her auburn hair is piled into a loose knot that has surrendered several wavy strands around her face, a pencil sits behind one ear, and a pale streak of blue paint crosses the back of her hand. “He knocked those over because she ignored him?”

“He has standards.” I return the bookmarks to their holder, making sure the corners line up. “Apparently, buying books without admiring management violates store policy.”

“Management slept through the morning delivery.”

Murphy directs his displeasure toward Birdie.

“Assistant management,” she amends, lifting both hands. “My mistake.”

He turns his head away from her with all the dignity of an irritated lion. If lions weighed seventeen pounds, shed on first editions, and screamed at closed bathroom doors, the resemblance would be perfect.

Murphy arrived at The Book Corner three years ago as a rain-soaked stray who slipped through the back door while I was carrying in a delivery. He ate half of my turkey sandwich, fell asleep beneath the register, and refused to leave. I told myself I was only giving him somewhere warm to stay until I found his owner, but no one claimed him, and Murphy claimed the bookstore before the week was over. Somewhere along the way, he claimed me too, although he prefers to pretend the arrangement was entirely my idea.

The Book Corner smells like paper, cedar shelves, and the cinnamon coffee Birdie abandoned on the windowsill an hour ago. Autumn light pours through the broad front windows, bringing out the honey tones in the century-old floorboards. Outside, red maples brighten Main Street between brick storefronts, while Lake Alder gleams at the end of the block beneath evergreen-covered slopes.

My father’s mother opened the bookstore forty years ago, filled the built-in shelves one book at a time, and taught half of Aldermere that browsing counted as a respectable Saturday plan. Now I live in the apartment upstairs, know which floorboard complains outside the romance aisle, and understand how a building can feel like both an inheritance and a living relative.

Today it feels watchful.

Or maybe it’s just me. My phone sits next to the checkout computer, screen up, and I’ve checked it so many times it probably counts as surveillance.

I force my attention toward the donation boxes. “How many are left?”

Birdie looks at the five sealed cartons around her boots. Her faded flannel hangs open over a T-shirt depicting a raccoon with the words SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL TRASH PANDA, and a tape measure peeks from the back pocket of her jeans. “Three, unless the box beside you contains books.”

“What else would it contain?” I ask.

Birdie considers the possibilities. “Regret. Tax documents. A cursed porcelain doll.”

“Why would anyone donate a cursed doll to a bookstore?”

“Where else would a cursed doll begin its reign of terror?” She slices through the tape on another carton. “A dentist’s office?”

“That would be redundant,” I point out.

Her laugh carries between the shelves, familiar and easy, and Murphy jumps from the counter to investigate the open box. He plants both front paws on one flap, sniffs a paperback, then looks at us with open disapproval.

“Supervisor has arrived,” Birdie announces.

“Wonderful.” I study the dusty books surrounding him. “Maybe he can explain why half of them smell like a basement.”

Murphy climbs into the carton and lowers his broad body over a row of biographies.