don’t really remember much. It was a long time ago, and the boys were quite a bit older than me.”
“What?” I’m in shock. My hands tremble as I pull them from the table and slide them into my lap, wringing them together. I can’t imagine Oakley getting into a fight. He’s so—so I don’t know...I just can’t see it. Allison also sounds unsure, like she’s grasping at the memory, but might not have the facts right. Four or five years ago I was in middle school, so was Allison. Something like that, in the news, wouldn’t hold much interest to a preteen.
This, however, is the only pseudo lead I have, the only local I know, so I press for more facts. “Can you think of their names? I mean you know the house, you might know the names of the people who lived there, right?”
Allison holds the mug, about to take another swig. She shakes her head. “No, not really, it was...a long time ago. Do you know what classes you’re taking this semester?”
“No, not yet. I’m supposed to get my schedule first day back. How about someone else I can talk to? Don’t you have an older brother or sister?”
“Uh, nope,” she says quickly. Her right hand leaves the mug and tucks some hair around her ear.
“Can I talk to your folks? I mean they’d have to remember—”
“You can’t. They’re...on vacation.”
My eyebrows rise. Odd. I shake out the trembles in my hands, grab my coffee cup and chug it down. “I’ve got to get going,” I say hastily.
Now, more than ever, I want to get to the library and figure out once and for all what happened. No matter how sad it is, if Oakley was killed by his own brother, I need to know.
I’m already pushing my chair out, standing up when Allison says, “O-Okay, well I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the coffee.” I make a beeline for the door, push it open and step out into the warm April air. I don’t bother looking back, I’m pretty sure if I did, Allison would be staring at me, mouth open—probably thinking I’m one rude California girl. And I almost feel bad for leaving that impression. On a good day, that’s not who I am at all, not anymore, at least.
Chapter Eight
The cool air of the library instantly tickles my skin with goose-bumps as I step through the door. The climate difference, from smouldering hot to cold, makes me wish I had a hoodie or long sleeves. But I know this is only temporary, that soon enough I’ll be back outside, suffocating in the heat. I settle for rubbing my hands over my bare arms as I walk towards the information desk.
I’m not sure what it is, but all libraries are the same, the smell of paper and glue assaults my nose. The so-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop makes me want to hum a tune just to make sound.
At least librarians are friendly, eager to please, and Willard Grove’s librarian is no exception. As I approach the desk, my sneakers making suction sounds against the polished floor, the woman behind it looks up. Her long slender finger quickly reaches up, pushing her glasses tight against her head. Only they slip slightly down the bridge of her nose, again. Her smile is warm, inviting, and her eyes gleam behind thick lenses.
“Welcome, can I help you find anything?” she says with a small voice. It matches her small frame that swims in her oversized gray cable-knit cardigan. And peeking out from beneath the wool and buttons is the frill of a pink silky looking blouse. Apparently she missed the memo that librarians no longer need to look like ‘50’s schoolmarms.
Since I’m only a small percent sure of what I’m looking for, I decide to forgo help, for now. “I’m just going to look around,” I reply. “If I need help, I’ll be sure to ask.” I could use a few moments of peace and quiet. To think.
She pushes her glasses up again, then smoothes her hand across her graying black hair that’s pulled back into something reminiscent of a bun, with a little more style. What do they call
“What?” I’m in shock. My hands tremble as I pull them from the table and slide them into my lap, wringing them together. I can’t imagine Oakley getting into a fight. He’s so—so I don’t know...I just can’t see it. Allison also sounds unsure, like she’s grasping at the memory, but might not have the facts right. Four or five years ago I was in middle school, so was Allison. Something like that, in the news, wouldn’t hold much interest to a preteen.
This, however, is the only pseudo lead I have, the only local I know, so I press for more facts. “Can you think of their names? I mean you know the house, you might know the names of the people who lived there, right?”
Allison holds the mug, about to take another swig. She shakes her head. “No, not really, it was...a long time ago. Do you know what classes you’re taking this semester?”
“No, not yet. I’m supposed to get my schedule first day back. How about someone else I can talk to? Don’t you have an older brother or sister?”
“Uh, nope,” she says quickly. Her right hand leaves the mug and tucks some hair around her ear.
“Can I talk to your folks? I mean they’d have to remember—”
“You can’t. They’re...on vacation.”
My eyebrows rise. Odd. I shake out the trembles in my hands, grab my coffee cup and chug it down. “I’ve got to get going,” I say hastily.
Now, more than ever, I want to get to the library and figure out once and for all what happened. No matter how sad it is, if Oakley was killed by his own brother, I need to know.
I’m already pushing my chair out, standing up when Allison says, “O-Okay, well I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the coffee.” I make a beeline for the door, push it open and step out into the warm April air. I don’t bother looking back, I’m pretty sure if I did, Allison would be staring at me, mouth open—probably thinking I’m one rude California girl. And I almost feel bad for leaving that impression. On a good day, that’s not who I am at all, not anymore, at least.
Chapter Eight
The cool air of the library instantly tickles my skin with goose-bumps as I step through the door. The climate difference, from smouldering hot to cold, makes me wish I had a hoodie or long sleeves. But I know this is only temporary, that soon enough I’ll be back outside, suffocating in the heat. I settle for rubbing my hands over my bare arms as I walk towards the information desk.
I’m not sure what it is, but all libraries are the same, the smell of paper and glue assaults my nose. The so-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop makes me want to hum a tune just to make sound.
At least librarians are friendly, eager to please, and Willard Grove’s librarian is no exception. As I approach the desk, my sneakers making suction sounds against the polished floor, the woman behind it looks up. Her long slender finger quickly reaches up, pushing her glasses tight against her head. Only they slip slightly down the bridge of her nose, again. Her smile is warm, inviting, and her eyes gleam behind thick lenses.
“Welcome, can I help you find anything?” she says with a small voice. It matches her small frame that swims in her oversized gray cable-knit cardigan. And peeking out from beneath the wool and buttons is the frill of a pink silky looking blouse. Apparently she missed the memo that librarians no longer need to look like ‘50’s schoolmarms.
Since I’m only a small percent sure of what I’m looking for, I decide to forgo help, for now. “I’m just going to look around,” I reply. “If I need help, I’ll be sure to ask.” I could use a few moments of peace and quiet. To think.
She pushes her glasses up again, then smoothes her hand across her graying black hair that’s pulled back into something reminiscent of a bun, with a little more style. What do they call
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