“I don’t think anything’s missing,” I said quietly.
“When were you last here?” Stevens said, making notes as I answered. “Do you have any idea who might have broken in?”
I was about to open my mouth to say no when I remembered the man who’d come up the stairs to Jack’s place the other night, and the blue Dodge Charger that had creeped me out. Stevens made more notes as I showed him the photos and recounted what had happened, and I couldn’t help feeling he wasn’t taking it very seriously. “I told Sam I’d remove Jack’s things,” I said after he asked me what I’d come here for, and had to try hard to keep the irritation from my voice as I explained about Sam’s intentions to sell.
Stevens shook his head. “You’ll have to wait until we finish processing the place. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
I was being dismissed, and so I muttered a goodbye and stepped into the hallway. The door to the closet was open. There had been nothing of value in there, sentimental or otherwise. It was where Jack kept an ironing board I’d seen him use once, along with a multitude of cleaning supplies and a box filled with shoe polish and old rags. I was about to walk by when I spotted a book on the floor, a dusty copy of a novel called Creep by Jennifer Hillier. At first, I assumed it belonged to Sam, something he’d forgotten, and which Jack either hadn’t seen in the closet, or hadn’t passed along. Except when I bent over, picked up the book and opened the front cover, right there, stamped on the first page, was a rectangular black-and-white bookplate with the words Yarmouth Public Library, Maine.
My palms turned clammy as I recalled Jack telling me how he’d moved from England to the States when he was a teenager, not long after his mother committed suicide. He’d also told me he’d lived in Maine for a while, somewhere near Portland. When I’d shared this information with Heron and Stevens, they’d said they’d “look into it” but as far as I could tell they’d done nothing, concentrating their investigation on the surrounding counties instead. It wasn’t surprising. There had to be a thousand men named Jack living in Maine, we still had no clue if it was his real name or when he’d left that state, and besides, police manpower was limited.
I hesitated, wondered if I should give the book to Stevens, but didn’t trust him enough to actually follow up, decided I could do a little research of my own before sharing all the info with Heron, with whom at least I had a bit of a rapport. Feeling like a thief, I stuffed the novel under my jacket and walked back to my car before driving straight home. Once behind closed doors I grabbed my phone, ran a search for Yarmouth and discovered it was a town in Cumberland County about twelve miles north of Portland.
I could barely stop the excitement as I dared to imagine the tiniest of cracks in the door that led to Jack’s identity opening before me. If the library could tell me who had borrowed the book, I might have his real name. I’d know more about him. I found the number for the library, my finger hovering over the screen, my brain fighting my heart on whether to make the call and take a step closer to uncovering the truth or turn my back and walk away. My brain won the battle, and I hit the call button, pressing the phone against my ear and keeping my left hand by my side in case it developed a will of its own and tried to hang up.
“Yarmouth Public Library, this is Mary speaking.”
My words tumbled out. “Hello, I have one of your books. I think it’s overdue.”
“Let me help you,” Mary said. “What’s your library card number?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
“Not to worry. What’s your name?”
I opened my mouth, almost blurted Lily Reid but my brain took charge, warning me if I told Mary I didn’t have an account, she’d cite some privacy laws and shut me down. I went with a different angle and let out a sob without having to try very hard. “The book’s called Creep. It was my brother’s favorite. He must have borrowed it before he passed away...”
“Oh, my Lord,” Mary said, clicking away on her keyboard. “You poor thing.”
Another sob escaped my lips. I was an utter piece of shit for manipulating a kindly librarian, but with the possibility of a detail about who Jack was dangling in front of me, I wouldn’t let one little lie stop me. It wasn’t hurting anyone.
“Here we go, yes, there it is,” Mary said. “We only had one copy and, my goodness, it was overdue. Maya Scott borrowed it over two years ago, and...” Her voice shifted, became hesitant. “Didn’t you say it was your brother’s?”
I hung up before she had the opportunity to call me out any further on my lies, and blocked the library’s number in case she phoned back. Excitement traveled from my toes to my fingertips, and everywhere in between. I had a name. Maya Scott.
Who was she? Jack’s previous girlfriend, perhaps? Unless...no. No. Did he have a wife and kids in Maine? He’d told me he’d never married, but was it true? What if he’d abandoned them to get out of alimony payments? As the last few days had passed, I’d figured in time—lots of time, and then some—I might accept I’d been
