Page 10 of Tessa and Nash

Thomas paces. Sits. Stands again. Taps his fingers against the edge of the table, trying to hurry the truth along.

“There has to be something,” he mutters. “Something they’ve missed.”

“If they’ve missed it, it won’t be here,” I say without looking up. “Records don’t forget. People do.”

I flip another page. Then another.

Nothing.

Boundaries unchanged. No new filings. No quiet land grabs hiding in the margins.

Finally, I straighten, rolling my shoulders back.

“There’s nothing here,” I say. “Nothing that can help you with an application… especially when you don’t know what it is yet.”

“I need to get ahead of them,” Thomas snaps.

I pull my gloves off and tuck them back into the drawer. “I’ll check the library.”

Thomas’s eyes sharpen. “Today.”

“Yes,” I say. “Today.”

He nods once, satisfied enough to let it go, for now.

The Buckhorn Library sits on the corner of Main and Cedar, squat and brick and stubbornly unchanged since the eighties. I push through the glass doors, the bell chiming overhead, and the warmth hits me immediately. Radiators humming, paper and binding glue, faintly sweet from the staff coffee pot.

And there she is.

Maeve O’Connell is perched behind the front desk, cardigan sleeves pushed up, dark hair piled into a messy bun that means she’s already been here too long. She’s stamping returns with theatrical flair.

She looks up.

Her grin is instantaneous and dangerous.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out. “If it isn’t Buckhorn’s most joyless archivist.”

I drop my bag onto the nearest chair and lean an elbow on the desk. “Good morning to you too, librarian menace.”

She squints at me. “You’re here before two. That’s either a crisis or a man.”

“Rude,” I say. “It’s a crisis about a man.”

Her eyes light up. “I knew it.”

I lower my voice, even though the library is mostly empty. “My uncle thinks the McCoys are plotting world domination. Or at least zoning violations.”

Maeve presses a hand to her chest. “Truly shocking news.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “He dragged me through the archives for hours. We found nothing.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she replies. “Because Buckhorn rumors are fueled by boredom and caffeine, not facts.”

I glance around, then lean in closer. “I told him I’d check the library.”

Her grin widens. “And you came straight to me instead of the microfilm?”

“Please,” I say. “If I wanted to punish myself, I’d alphabetize my spice rack again.”