Page 61 of Mail Order Bride: A Psychological Thriller

“Do you have a library card?” she asks.

“No, not yet. I just moved here. I—”

“I know who you are.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

“You married that Miller boy.”

He’s hardly a boy. “Joel, yes.”

She shakes her head. “Plenty of nice young women around here, and he had to go and pick up a Yankee,” she tells me with a scoff. “But then, that boy’s always been a little off. Not the brightest bulb in the box, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m from Tennessee, actually. And, no, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Didn’t figure you would,” she says. “Anyway, you'll need a library card.”

“Great. How—”

“But it's probably no matter anyhow,” she adds. “I don’t think we carry what you're looking for.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, maybe you could order something.”

“Well, maybe you could order something,” she repeats in a singsong voice. A very mocking, singsong voice.

“I wouldn't hold your breath. All of our orders have been placed for this year.”

“It's only February.”

“All the same. I said what I said.”

Her reply gives me an idea. “Oh,” I say. “Maybe you're looking for help?”

She looks me over from one end to the other. “What? You meanyou?”

“Yes, me. I have experience—”

“We're not hiring. And even if we were, you'd be the last person I'd consider.”

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