Wherever She Goes(22)



“I realize how my remarks yesterday could have been misconstrued.”

Yeah, pretty sure you knew exactly what you were saying.

“I don’t doubt that you saw a child pulled into a van.”

You just think, like Officer Cooper, that I overreacted to a frustrated parent hauling their kid from the playground.

“I’d like to discuss this. If there’s any possibility that the police are in error here, I will help you get through to them.”

Sure, you’ll help . . . if I’m actually right, which you seriously doubt. Let’s talk, and you can convince me that I’ve made a mistake.

“Call me, Bree. Please.”

I hit Delete and get ready for work.



Ingrid knows about the video clip. So does Nancy, the other librarian on duty. One of them saw the live coverage and told the other. They don’t say a word about it to me. Which means I’m robbed of the opportunity to explain. They just keep sneaking looks my way.

Those looks aren’t disapproving. Again, like with Paul, I almost wish that they were. I can deal with disapproval. Instead, their looks ooze trepidation. Like Paul, they question my mental stability.

By eleven, I’m ready to confront Ingrid. March her into the staff room and have it out.

I know you saw that news clip. Let me give my side of the story.

Let me show you I am fine.

I’m considering how to do that without being confrontational, when a voice says, “Aubrey?”

I turn with my “How may I help you?” smile. I don’t recognize the guy. He’s about my age, good-looking in a ten-years-post-frat way. Really not my taste in men, but he fixes me with a blazing smile that says he’s pretty damned sure he’s every woman’s taste in men.

“Hey, there,” he says.

“May I help you?”

Another toothy grin. “I certainly hope so.”

Not today, asshole. Come back tomorrow, and maybe I’ll be ready for your crap, with an empty smile and then, “Oh, I think you want to speak to Nancy about that.”

Nancy is nearing retirement age, and on my first day, she said that if I ever had a customer being too friendly, I could pass him off to her. I’d laughed at the time, certain that no one hits on librarians. I’d been wrong. I have appreciated Nancy’s kindness and help in the past, which makes her wary looks today so much harder to handle.

Right now, though, I am in no mood for this. The old Aubrey rises as I stand, stone-faced, waiting for the guy to say something productive.

“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t look like a librarian?” he says.

“I’m sure every librarian has been told—repeatedly—that she does not look like a librarian. Or, at least, not like the image of a librarian held by people who don’t frequent libraries.”

His smile falters at that. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Straightens. And I think he’s actually going to abort course. But after a moment, he leans over the counter.

“You’re the girl from the news, right?”

“I stopped being a ‘girl’ about ten years ago. But if you’re asking whether I was briefly on the news yesterday, yes, I was. I didn’t realize I was talking to a reporter. I was just there to make a statement.”

“You don’t like reporters?”

He smiles when he says it, casual, overly charming, gaze never leaving mine. But the problem with trying to flirt while holding eye contact? You give yourself away in little things. Eyelids lowering or rising. Pupils dilating or contracting, just for a second.

“I like reporters just fine,” I say. “Except when they’re trying to get a story by pretending they aren’t reporters.” I lean in to whisper, “Don’t you hate that?”

He blinks.

“Go away,” I say. “There’s no story here.”

I walk toward the other side of the circulation desk. The guy skirts the exterior, following me.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying, right?” He winks, sliding back into frat-boy mode. “You said you were trying to give a statement. The police weren’t listening. That doesn’t seem fair. You’re obviously a smart woman. Look where you work.” He waves around the library. “And you saw right through my patter. I don’t think anyone has ever—”

“Cut the crap,” I say.

Ingrid looks over fast enough to inflict whiplash.

“I made my statement to the police,” I say. “I trust that they will handle it. I don’t want to impede their investigation, so I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

“They’re ignoring you. You do know that, right?”

“Their priority is identifying a murdered woman. As soon as they do, they’ll discover she has a child, who is missing.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“No, but you can quote me on this.”

I start to raise my middle finger. I stop myself, but Ingrid still lets out a chirp of alarm and scampers over.

“I am so sorry, sir. Ms. Finch has been under a great deal of stress.”

“He’s a reporter,” I say. “One who doesn’t understand that I am at work.”

“What time do you get off?” he says. “We can grab coffee. Maybe a drink.”

Kelley Armstrong's Books