Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
“Mrs. Walsh -- Maggie -- I can’t --”
“You can and you will.” Her tone left no room for argument. “The envelope will contain everything you need. Money, contact information, and instructions. All you have to do is memorize those three words and deliver them, along with the message that I’m safe but unreachable.”
“And if I refuse?”
Her expression softened slightly. “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what was in that envelope.” She stood and looked down at me. “Besides, you were leaving anyway. Consider this a paid detour.”
Before I could think of a reply, she’d unlocked the door and walked out, head held high.
Lockbox. Sycamore. Breach.
What the fuck was I even doing? This was like some kind of spy novel, probably like the books I’d noticed her reading. She was likely in a dementia compounded dream or something. Shaking myself, I hurried out into the hall to make sure Mrs. Walsh got back to her room OK.
When I got to her room, Mrs. Walsh’s door was shut. I knocked lightly, then opened the door a crack. There was still faint lighting in the room for safety, but the room looked like I’d left it.
I checked her bedroom and, sure enough, the older woman was in bed, snoring softly. I smiled as I partially closed the door before heading back out into the hallway. Everything would be fine. I wanted to think Mrs. Walsh wouldn’t remember our conversation, but nothing like this had happened with her before. What if she wasn’t delusional? What if everything she’d said was the truth? I didn’t have answers for those kinds of questions.
She was right about one thing, though. I did want to know what was in that fucking envelope.
Chapter Two
River
The public library in Vancouver, Washington looked like a cross between an urban mall and the Roman Coliseum. With more overdue notices and fewer gladiators. I had no idea why I was here. It’s not like I actually expected to find anything. I just couldn’t seem to resist the thought of an adventure.
At exactly four in the afternoon, I stepped through the revolving glass doors and tried to look inconspicuous. Not an easy feat, considering the purpose was to retrieve a mystery envelope for a possibly ex-CIA spymaster or some shit from behind an old, out-of-date encyclopedia, like the world’s nerdiest drop point. And maybe I was lost in my own fanciful musings. I had to smile. I was kind of having fun. It was like an adventure!
It wasn’t raining for once, but the air still had the clinging, wet asphalt smell that was oddly comforting. I thought I should be nervous or something, but it was too much fun to think about to be nervous. I’d been assigned a quest by a cryptic, possibly delusional fairy godmother with a Parkinson’s tremor and a talent for psychological warfare. The thought made me stifle a giggle.
I drifted through the main floor, past the help desk and the “Local Authors” display, straight to the elevator. Behind me, a kid in a Spiderman backpack trailed his mom toward the children’s section, skipping along and looking excited. I definitely felt the same way.
The elevator doors closed on a guy in a T-shirt with a faded band logo and I rode in silence to the third floor. According to Mrs. Walsh, the reference section was tucked back behind geography, a quiet warren of study carrels and shelves no one under sixty ever browsed. I’d scoped it online the night before. I’m not dumb.
Mrs. Walsh had been explicit. “The 1986 World Atlas, behind the second row, center shelf. Not the 1992 edition. Only the ‘86.” If she’d specified a Dewey Decimal code, I might have laughed, but her face had been stone cold when she said it. Like there’d be real consequences for screwing this up, and not just “forgetting to refill the saltshakers in the dining room” level consequences.
When I found the book, I couldn’t suppress a little thrill zinging through me. I remembered the library in the group home I’d spent the most time in during my childhood had mystery series that I loved to read. Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden were my absolute favorites. I could see both amateur sleuths in my exact place.
The cover was two shades of dark maroon, sun faded at the edges, and heavier than I’d expected. I was careful as I pulled out the book, but my hands were actually trembling. There was no one else in the aisle, unless you counted the porcelain bust of some stern-faced man from a couple hundred years ago glaring from the endcap.
Just behind where the book had been, affixed to the back of the shelf with two strips of black tape, was a little metal box. Like an Altoid tin but with no writing on it, and bigger. My pulse thumped and I had to take a deep breath to keep from giggling in excitement. What the hell was going on? I should probably be alarmed instead of thrilled. There were so many questions I had a feeling I was going to have a hard time finding answers for, but I knew there was no way I wasn’t going to let this whole adventure play out on its own.