“Are you sure?”
He takes a half second to think if over, finally nods. “It’ll be nice to spend the day with her. Think maybe I’ll bring home some pastrami sandwiches. She’ll love that.”
I give him a gentle clap on the shoulder as he shuffles by me. The Basement is not handicap friendly, and he has to climb stairs up to the street. He pauses at the door.
“Thanks again, John. Just do me one favor, okay?”
“What’s that?”
He grins. “Don’t burn the place down.”
• • •
The afternoon drags on. A few customers come and go, a few sales are made, but there’s nothing noteworthy. A Lenco turntable sits beside the counter. I put on a Duke Ellington EP and the few speakers around the Basement begin breathing out some smooth jazz. I walk the narrow aisles, the rows and rows of bookshelves at least eight feet tall, making sure all the spines are lined up nicely. There are a few boxes of books in the back room that need sorting, what looks like a bunch of hardcovers.
I start piles-mystery and thriller, romance, general fiction, nonfiction-and lose myself to the mindless task. It’s one of the main reasons I like working at the Basement. It’s certainly not for the pay. I’ve always liked books. Reading them, yes, but also the feel of them in my hands. The texture of the paper when I turn the page. The different fonts and layouts of each book. Even the smell of aged paper.
I also like being alone in general, but even more so today. I’m still not sure quite how to process it. Unlike Duncan, Kyle and Jim aren’t aware of my sister, let alone any of my siblings, so I knew there would be no danger of them asking how I was doing. It sucks, but the truth is I was never close to my sister. The most interaction I had with her was from the email and text message and voicemails she sent last week. I saw her briefly at the funeral but hightailed it out of there before she and my mother could get close enough. Every time I think about that, I want to kick myself. What an asshole I was. Scratch that-what an asshole I am.
I left my cell phone back at the apartment. If Ed or Hank try calling, they’ll have to leave a voicemail. I’m hoping that there will be a call from them when I return later tonight. I hope one of them will say that they’re giving me a second chance. I love being a courier-it’s something I’m actually good at-and if that’s taken away, I’m not sure what else there is for me. Finding another company might be tricky after word gets out I lost a package and then, consequently, my company lost the account. When I thought about it yesterday, I tried playing it off that I could get hired anywhere. Now I’m not so sure.
So that’s what I’m doing most of the day-sorting books in the back room, walking the aisles facing all the spines, ringing up the few customers that wander into the store-when four o’clock rolls around and the bell above the door jingles, signaling the change of everything.
• • •
There are two of them, a man and a woman. The man looks like he’s in his early forties, black, short dark hair. He wears khakis and a collared dress shirt but no tie. The woman looks like she’s in her late-twenties. She’s cute, has long red hair, pale skin, striking brown eyes. She’s wearing a black skirt and cream blouse.
I can tell from the moment they walk into the store, their gazes set on me behind the counter, that they’re not here to buy books.
The woman speaks first.
“John Smith?”
I’m sitting on the stool, paging through a massive book on Aztec and Mayan culture. Currently the one opened page shows an Aztec pyramid during sunset. It’s beautiful, the way the colors play off the gigantic stone structure, and before the bell rang I was wondering if I would ever get a chance to travel there and see it for myself.
I close the book with a snap. “He’s not here. You just missed him.”
The man and woman come to stand in front of the counter. They exchange a quick glance.
“You’re not John Smith?” the woman asks.
“Nope.”
Another glance exchange. “I find that very hard to believe. You look just like her.”
I don’t take the bait. Instead I grab a notepad and pen and say, “If you’d like to leave a message for John, I’ll be sure he gets it.”
The woman isn’t deterred. “Mr. Smith, we’re reporters from the Post.”
I groan inwardly. I set the pen aside and ask, “Is this about what happened in the subway station yesterday?”
The man and woman frown.
The woman says, “No.”
“Then what’s this about?”
“Your sister.”
Somehow I knew this was coming and braced myself for it, but still I hope nothing changes in my face.
“My sister committed suicide.”
“Maybe,” the woman says. “But there’s also a chance she may have been murdered.”
fourteen
For a long moment John Smith didn’t say anything. He sat behind the counter, keeping his face as neutral as he could, though Ashley saw a slight twitch around his eye. She was surprised just how much he looked like Melissa. Not exactly like her, of course, but they had the same eyes, the same nose structure. After all day of searching, she had thought this would be a wild goose chase, but the second they stepped through the door and she saw him behind the counter, she knew it was him.
Finally John spoke.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Beside her, Jeff cleared his throat. “Mr. Smith, we apologize for the intrusion-”
“How did you guys find me, anyway?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Ashley said. “We called around to several different courier services until we found yours. They told us you weren’t working today and gave us your number. We tried calling it but there was no answer, so we called the service back, got your address, went to your apartment, and your roommate directed us here.”
“My company gave you my information, huh? Let me guess, you spoke with a piece of shit named Hank.”
“Listen, Mr. Smith,” Jeff began, but he quieted when Ashley shot him a glare. She had needed Jeff to get her to this point, and now that they were here she could handle the rest on her own. The fact that she had used him might have bothered her more had he not tried to use her yesterday.
John asked, “Why do you think she was murdered?”
“It’s just a hunch.”
“A hunch,” he repeated, then laughed. “My sister kills her family and then herself, and you spend all day tracking me down on a fucking hunch? What paper did you say you worked for again, the Post? Why am I not surprised?”
Now it was Jeff’s turn to shoot her a glare. His lips went tight. He had gone out on a limb for her, had humored her all this way, but now that they had finally found the person they were looking for, he was pissed. After all, Jeff was a real journalist. He took his job seriously. He wasn’t in the business of harassing the siblings of the recently deceased. Then again, neither was Ashley, but she had always been quick on her feet.
“Mr. Smith-John, can I call you John?”
He said nothing.
“John, my name is Ashley Walker. I was a friend of your sister’s. We were actually roommates at Vassar.”
Crossing his arms, John asked, “Are you working toward a point, Ms. Walker?”
“She was my best friend. I know you might not believe that, but it’s true. In fact, we had lunch just yesterday. She mentioned you. About how she saw you at your father’s funeral.”
And there it was. His hard features began to soften. His lips parted slightly. She thought he might speak on his own and didn’t want to jinx anything by speaking first. But after several seconds passed in silence, she knew she needed to give him a nudge.
“You were at your father’s funeral this past weekend, weren’t you?”
Just as quickly as his features had softened, they hardened again. “Why are you here?”