Page 53

“Did he leave anything with you?” I ask. “Papers, a note, or a book?”

Dad looks toward the shelves near the fireplace. “No papers. He said he put it where Cassie always looks first.”

My chair scrapes the floor as I lean closer. “What did he put there?”

“The important part.” Dad’s attention returns to the puzzle, and he fills one empty square with a seven. “You always look first.”

I try to hide my urgency as I ask, “Where do I always look first? At home, in the store, or in a book?”

“You know.” Dad erases the seven and writes a four. “You always do.”

“Which book did Connor mean?”

His pencil stops. Confusion returns to his face, and I can see how much it frustrates him that the answer is no longer there.

“Connor is at work,” he says, looking toward the door. “He’ll be here for lunch.”

I close my eyes for one breath, then open them and place my hand over his. “He had to work today, remember? Birdie and I came to eat with you.”

“Birdie.” He turns toward her as if noticing her for the first time. “Did Joanna bring you?”

Birdie’s eyes shine, but her smile remains warm as she moves closer to him. “Cassie brought me, Uncle Tom. We have lemon cookies while we wait for lunch.”

He accepts the answer and reaches for the other half of his cookie. The moment is gone, and pushing him for answers will only upset him.

We stay through lunch, and Dad asks twice why Connor is late. I repeat that the bank needed him, and every version of the lie hurts more than the one before it. When we leave, Dad hugs Birdie and calls her by her own name. He holds me afterward, one hand resting against the back of my head.

“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “Your brother knows how to solve problems.”

I hold him until an aide appears with his afternoon medication. “I know he does.”

Outside, the cool air smells of damp cedar. Once the locked doors close behind us, Birdie takes my hand and guides me toward a bench beneath the entrance canopy.

“You don’t have to keep moving yet,” she says.

I sit because my legs feel unreliable. Through the windows, Dad walks down the corridor with an aide until his blue cardigan disappears around a corner.

“I hate lying to him,” I say. “He believed Connor was coming for lunch, forgot, and believed it again. If I told him Connor was missing, he might live through that fear five times before dinner.”

“You protected him from pain he can’t do anything with.” Birdie sits close beside me and wraps both hands around mine. “That isn’t the same as deceiving him for your benefit.”

“It feels the same when he looks at me.”

“I know.” She rests her head against my shoulder. “I also know Uncle Tom would have protected you from it if he could.”

Families pass with flowers, puzzles, and restaurant bags while I wipe my face with the heel of my hand.

“Where Cassie always looks first,” I repeat. “I read the first page of every used book that comes into the store.”

Birdie lifts her head. “Connor knows that.”

“Everyone in our family knows it because Grandma started the habit. She said the first page tells you whether a book wants to be opened again.” I picture Connor at the long oak table, watching me open a donated novel before checking its condition or price. “He could have hidden a note inside the front cover or written in the margin.”

“Which book did he mean?” Birdie asks.

“The store has thousands, and Connor’s apartment has hundreds.” I pull my hand free and stand. “Maybe he meant his favorite book or one he knew I would recognize.”

My phone rings inside my purse. Andrei’s name appears on the screen. I saved his number last night because refusing to add it to my contacts wouldn’t stop him from calling me.