Page 41 of By the Book

I sprinted after them. I only caught a glimpse of the living room as I raced through it—books pulled from shelves, taxidermy animals everywhere, the shattered remains of a cloche catching the afternoon light and glowing gold. Then I was through the living room, racing into the butler’s pantry, then the kitchen, then the servants’ dining room. The side door stood open, allowing in the fresh, stinging smell of the sea, and when I stumbled outside, the wind caught me and gave me a shove. I barely managed to save my glasses.

The figure in black was already disappearing into the old-growth forest that surrounded Hemlock House. I could go after them. But that would require running. And being hot. And sweaty. Or I could face the fact that, with the lead they had, and the fact that I was only wearing one shoe, by the time I reached the trees, I’d have lost them.

I went back inside.

The living room was even worse than my first impression had suggested. Whoever had been here, they’d ransacked the place. A few hours ago, it had been a beautifully preservedslice of Victoriana, with its massive fireplace, the thick rugs (okay, one needed to be cleaned after the cupcake incident), the dramatic chandeliers, and, of course, the bookcases. Now it looked like a war zone. Books had been hurled to the floor without any apparent regard for their age. Pages that had separated from their binding snowed across the floorboard. A trinket box ornamented with lapis lazuli had broken when it hit the floor, and a bronze urn had lost its lid and rolled halfway under a tufted sofa. A taxidermy crow lay beak down, tail feathers stiff with outrage (and with, um, taxidermy).

I stood there for a while, taking it in. And then I made my way to the kitchen. Indira had left a huckleberry icebox cake in the fridge. I grabbed the whole thing, found a fork, and went into the servants’ dining room. Then I started to eat.

It was good. Don’t get me wrong. Every once in a while, it tasted kind of salty. That was when I realized I was crying. I dropped my fork and put my face in my hands and tried to take a deep breath.

“Dash—” Bobby called from the side door—which, I now remembered, I’d left open because I’d been in a fugue state. He must have seen me, because his voice changed. “Are you okay? What happened?”

I shook my head, fighting against the tears, trying to get control of my voice.

“Are you hurt?” Bobby crouched next to me. His hand was warm and solid on my leg. “What’s going on?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m okay.”

And then I started crying harder.

Bobby drew a chair next to me, sat, and pulled me against him. He let me cry. He ran his fingers through my hair, and he rubbed my back, and was quiet and real andthere. Sometimes, if I was being a hundred percent honest, I would have liked a tiny bit more communication from Bobby. In, you know, words. Butif you’ve ever needed a really cathartic crying jag, then you know silence is golden.

When I calmed down, Bobby gave me a napkin, and I wiped my face. My cheeks were hot. My eyes stung. But I felt better. Or at least stable.

Then I said, “Is that my shoe?”

The Mexico 66 was on the floor next to Bobby. He said, “By the time I got to the library, you’d already left.”

“Oh.”

“The sheriff called me when she got Stewart’s email. I think she thought it was a joke.”

I nodded.

And then, in the tone of someone walking barefoot on broken glass and trying to pretend like it wasn’t total agony, Bobby asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I burst out laughing.

Bobby stared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was very sweet. You just sounded so—” I caught the look on his face and changed what I’d been about to say. “—um, like you genuinely wanted to talk about it?”

Bobby snorted.

“I got in this awful fight with my parents. With my mom, of course. And then, when I got home, someone was here—”

Voice sharp, Bobby asked, “Someone was in the house?”

I nodded. “They tore the living room apart—”

“Stay here,” Bobby said.

I had to wait until he did a full sweep of the house, which, honestly, takes longer than you might think. I mean, it’s a big house.

When he returned, his face was dark.

“How bad is the billiard room?” I asked.

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