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“You should get used to hearing his name. It’s been five years, and it’s getting a bit ridiculous.”
“I’d rather pretend it never happened. The sooner I can forget he ever existed, the better.” Mere struggled to keep her tone polite. Her parents were only trying to help. Unfortunately, they never seemed to take the hint that, at least in this, she didn’t want it.
“Some pagan religions believe naming a thing gives you power over it.” Her father, who started his career as a history teacher, was a font of little-known facts. “It’s been so long, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Tyson shouldn’t?—”
Mere clapped her hands over her ears. She wanted to forget the biggest mistake of her life, but her damn parents, as well-meaning as they were, wouldn’t let her. The mention of his name had her flashing back to the last time she saw him. Ugly, angry, vicious. If she never remembered his face again, it would be too soon.
“Stop, Rich.” Her mother laid a hand on his arm. He clamped his jaws shut.
Mere rose and tossed her napkin on the table. “I never want to hear his name again. Not from you, not from anyone. I know it’s unreasonable. I know you’re trying to help, but stop, please.”
She stomped to the kitchen and jerked her purse off the floor. “Thank you for dinner. I’m sorry I won’t be staying to clean up. I’m tired.”
Pushing out the door, she heard her mother’s sobs. Guilt tore at her, but she had her boundaries and needed to stick to them.
“It’s okay, Jodi.” Her father’s words cut off as the door slammed shut behind her.
Mere started the car with a vigorous twist and drove straight home.
3
THE CABINET OF DEATH
A Saturday in the off-season was always quiet. A couple of older volunteers and a teenager helped her reshelve books, check in returns, check out patrons, and answer questions about the computers and copiers. Dee had this Saturday off.
“I need to clean up the archives,” she said to Mrs. Murillo. “I had to meet my parents for dinner last night and didn’t properly refile the materials Mr. Haynes requested.”
Mrs. Murillo smirked and winked knowingly. “You sure that’s all that happened down there?”
The heat rose in Mere’s face, damn her Scandinavian ancestors.
“Oh, I’m just teasing, dear. Go on with you. I’ll knock if there’s anything we can’t handle.”
There was nothing Mrs. Murillo couldn’t handle. Before she retired to Strawberry Creek, she was a librarian herself. She came in twice a week to help out, and Mere enjoyed having her. She was a real lifesaver whenever Mere encountered a new problem.
Mere padded down the stairs, clutching her cardigan around her in the chill air of the basement. The shadows cast by the automatic fluorescent lights still creeped her out. Fingering the old photo in her pocket, she headed right for the folios she had dumped last night. What had Anders Haynes been looking for? She flipped through the pages and scanned them. Surely, something would jump out at her.
Unfortunately, nothing did. Nothing in the old newspapers told her there was some conspiracy going on. At least, nothing that would have a 130-year-old man risk coming back to his hometown and being discovered.
Speaking of Leonard Reed…she went to the Cabinet of Death. There was nothing wrong with the cabinet, but it was filled with copies of all the death certificates filed since the town was founded. Filed first by year, then alphabetically, she had to make a choice. Should she begin with the year she knew the man had been alive, or should she make an assumption and skip a few decades to when he may have been old?
Mere was nothing if not methodical. She started with 1920 and worked her way up. An hour later, deep into the 60s, a knocking broke her out of her almost trance-like state. She ran up the stairs and met Mrs. Murillo.
“Sorry, Mere, but someone needs to pay a fine.”
As the only paid employee of the library and archives working today, she was the sole person able to accept money from patrons. The transaction only took a few minutes.
“You must have left a big mess,” Mrs. Murillo said.
“Oh, I got distracted by the folios. I couldn’t help but glance through them.”
Mrs. Murillo shook her head with a smile. “You were born to be a librarian. I’m so glad you returned to Strawberry Creek.”
“Me too.”
Few knew the whole story, and she hoped they never would.
They closed at five, and Mere returned to the archives, feeling slightly guilty. She shouldn’t. These were public records, available for the asking. And she knew them backward and forward. It wouldn’t take much longer.
