The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(54)

Liesl felt nauseated with guilt; there was no way to tell John of his role in her quiet detachment from Miriam. Ashamed, embarrassed, disgusted with herself for looking the other direction when Miriam’s demeanor began to look too much like John’s and the weight of another John seemed too heavy.

“A coworker,” she said, her voice creaking.

“Your protégé, I thought.”

“I told you she was missing,” Liesl said.

“You told me half the story.”

In the early days of their marriage, the smell of toast in the kitchen meant John was up early to fix breakfast for her, and in the later days of their marriage it meant he couldn’t get out of bed and that Hannah had cooked dinner for herself after school. He had put two slices in the toaster before going outside to get the paper. They were forgotten now, gone cold and stale. But the smell of toast lingered when she rushed down to the kitchen with wet hair and her blouse unbuttoned.

“It’s going to look as though I leaked to the press.”

He looked at her like she was a stranger. “That’s your concern?”

“It’s one of them.”

He sat in a creaky chair at the creaky kitchen table. “Who cares what people think?”

She did not sit down beside him.

“Everyone—humans—care what people think,” she said.

“A young woman has disappeared!” he said. “And her reputation is being ruined. She is being called a thief while she can’t defend herself.”

“I know that. Of course I know it’s terrible.”

“Then why are you thinking only of yourself?” he said. “Are you still not telling me the truth? Is it that you suspect Miriam too?”

“Her disappearance is suspicious,” said Liesl. “Right as the thefts were discovered.”

John got out of his chair and walked to the toaster, taking the cold bread out and handing it to her on a napkin.

“You should eat something,” he said.

“I should go to work.”

***

The glass towers of the business school sent darts of early morning light into Liesl’s eyes. She dropped her head to stave off the sun and walked the rest of the way to the administration building looking at the scuff on the toe of her left shoe.

She didn’t make it all the way inside before encountering Garber and his bicycle helmet. “I’m happy to not have to hunt you down today.”

He held the door for her, and she, still worried about that scuff, went into his office.

“It wasn’t me,” Liesl said.

“I know it wasn’t you,” he said. “That doesn’t mean it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. Garber hung his bicycle helmet on his coatrack.

“You called the police.”

He stood right in front of her. She hadn’t sat down, so he wouldn’t either. His gray hair was slightly sweaty from the bike ride.

“To report a missing person,” Liesl said, running her hands through her still-damp hair. “What choice did I have?”

“That’s not the question,” Garber said.

“Then what is the question?”

“Look,” said Garber, “you asked why I considered you at fault.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the paper.

It lay where he tossed it, on the coffee table in the office’s seating area. The picture of Miriam was uglier than Liesl remembered. She put her hands on her hips to stare down at the photo. In doing so, she realized she had missed a belt loop on her trousers and her black leather belt was riding up slightly on her left hip.

“Without a police investigation, there’s nothing for the press to write about.”

“You don’t think the police leaked it?” she asked.

The picture of the library was even nicer than Liesl remembered.

“I don’t care who leaked it. The minute there was paper—official reports, emails—there was going to be a leak. Any sensible leader would know that. Christopher would have known that. And you should have too.”

Liesl moved her left side away from him, fingers twitching at her hip, hoping to correct the belt before he noticed.

“I should get to the library. There will be questions.”

“There will. And I’ll thank you not to answer any.” He insisted on standing face-to-face with her, thinking her half turn was a way of evading his authority.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Use the press office,” said Garber.

“The press office?” Liesl said. She managed to hook her thumb around the belt, and she turned her body away from him again. “You think there will be more press?”

“The story is delicious. A rogue librarian.” He stepped in front of her again.

“I don’t think she did it,” Liesl said.

Garber picked the paper up and looked at Miriam’s picture. Her hair hung to her chin in limp curls, and her eyes looked like they were two different sizes. Liesl took his moment of distraction as an opportunity to give the belt a yank so at least it was level with her trousers. The loop would come later.

“So you say. But nothing matters less than the truth now that the press is involved.”