His face reddened.
“You think I killed Sam?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Daniel walked toward the door.
At the threshold, he stopped.
Without turning, he said, “You know what your problem has always been, Elias?”
“Several people have lists.”
“You think betrayal has to look unfamiliar.”
Then he left.
I stood there a long time.
Because something about that sentence sounded less like anger than confession.
Mercer called an hour later.
“I found Devlin.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“St. Vincent Hospice.”
I frowned.
“He’s dying?”
“Liver cancer.”
“Convenient.”
“No. Very inconvenient for him.”
We drove separately.
Martin Devlin looked nothing like the architect of a police corruption ring.
He looked like a dying grandfather.
Thin.
Yellow skin.
Oxygen tubes beneath his nose.
A baseball game played silently on the television.
When Mercer entered, Devlin smiled.
“Chief.”
Then he saw me.
The smile disappeared.
“Well,” he whispered. “Ghosts really do travel in pairs.”
I pulled a chair close.
“You know me?”
“Everybody knew you.”
“Twenty-three years ago?”
He nodded.
“Who taught you the phrase?”
His eyes moved toward Mercer.
“Straight to it.”
“I’m old.”
“So am I.”
“Then neither of us has time.”
He laughed, then coughed painfully.
Mercer stood near the door.
Devlin looked at him.
“You finally told him?”
“Some.”
“Coward.”
Mercer’s face tightened.
I leaned forward.
“Who taught you?”
Devlin closed his eyes.
“Sergeant Haines.”
“When?”
“1991.”
“Who taught Haines?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who did the money go to?”
“Depends on the year.”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
His eyes opened.
“You won’t like the answer.”
“I’ve lived through plenty I didn’t like.”
Devlin looked at Mercer again.
Then at me.
“Your partner.”
Everything stopped.
“Sam?”
Devlin nodded.
Mercer stepped forward.
“That’s a lie.”
“Shut up, Adrian.”
I stared at Devlin.
“Say it clearly.”
“Samuel Price took money.”
My chair scraped the floor as I stood.
Devlin did not flinch.
“He was investigating you.”
“He was collecting.”
“No.”
“He took envelopes from Haines.”
“No.”
“I saw it.”
Mercer grabbed the bed rail.
“You saw Haines giving evidence to an investigator.”
“Cash in parking lots isn’t evidence.”
“You don’t know what it was.”
Devlin smiled weakly.
“None of us did.”
I forced myself to sit.
“Why would Sam investigate a system he was part of?”
“Protection.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Maybe.”
Devlin’s breathing became rough.
Then he said, “Ask about Shepherd.”
My blood chilled.
“Who is Shepherd?”
His eyes moved toward me.
“You still don’t know?”
“No.”
He began laughing.
The laugh became coughing.
A nurse entered, but he waved her away.
When he could speak again, his voice was barely audible.
“Shepherd wasn’t a person.”
I leaned closer.
“What was it?”
“A file.”
Mercer and I looked at each other.
“What file?”
“The list.”
“What list?”
Devlin’s eyes filled with something that might have been fear.
“Everybody who paid. Everybody who collected. Everybody who protected them.”
“Where is it?”
“Sam had it.”
“Then where did it go?”
“He gave it to someone.”
“Who?”
Devlin stared at me.
“Your wife.”
I stopped breathing.
Mercer whispered, “Rebecca?”
Devlin nodded.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“My wife was a school librarian.”
“Exactly.”
I stood.
“This conversation is over.”
Devlin said my name.
I turned.
His eyes were clearer now than they had been since we entered.
“Sam didn’t trust cops anymore.”
I froze.
“So he gave the most dangerous piece of evidence in Ohio to someone nobody would ever search.”
Rebecca.
My Rebecca.
I walked out without speaking.
Claire was in the living room when I returned.
She knew immediately.
“What happened?”
I looked around the house.
At the boxes.
At the walls.
At the photographs.
“Where are your mother’s things?”
Claire frowned.
“What things?”
“Everything.”
“Dad, most of Mom’s stuff is at your house.”
“Not everything.”
She stood.
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
We drove to my home that afternoon.
It had been Rebecca’s home more than mine.
Four years after her death, I still kept her gardening gloves in the garage.
Her blue mug remained at the back of the cupboard.
Grief was not always dramatic.
Sometimes grief was refusing to throw away expired tea because the person who bought it was gone.
Claire and I searched until dark.
Desk drawers.
Bookshelves.
Storage boxes.
Rebecca had been a librarian for thirty-one years.
She labeled everything.
Tax records.
Insurance.
Photographs.
School.
Claire.
Christmas.
Nothing called Shepherd.
At 9:40, Claire sat on the bedroom floor surrounded by boxes.
“This is insane.”
“Probably.”
“What exactly did Devlin say?”
“That Sam gave your mother a file.”
“Why would Mom never tell you?”
That was the question breaking me.
Rebecca and I had no secrets.
Or I had believed we had no secrets.
Then Claire looked toward the hallway.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Mom did keep one thing from you.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“The library key.”
“What library key?”
“After she retired. She kept going to the old school library.”
“I know.”
“No. After the building closed.”
The elementary school where Rebecca had worked had shut down six years before her death.
The district moved students to a newer campus.
The old structure had remained empty until redevelopment stalled.
“What are you saying?”
“Mom used to go there.”
“Why?”
“She said she was sorting archived books.”
“How often?”
“Once or twice a month.”
“For how long?”
Claire shrugged.
“Years.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“Did she have a key?”
Claire nodded.
“Do you know where it is?”
She stood.
“Maybe.”
Rebecca’s jewelry box was still on the dresser.
Claire opened the bottom drawer, removed a velvet tray, and turned it over.
A brass key had been taped underneath.
Attached to it was a small paper tag.
In Rebecca’s handwriting:
REFERENCE — 314
The old Franklin Elementary School stood behind a chain-link fence three miles outside town.
Windows boarded.
Playground weeds waist high.
Claire wanted to come inside.
I refused.
She argued.
I won.
Barely.
The brass key opened a side door.
Inside smelled of dust and old paper.
I walked through hallways where children had once hung construction-paper snowflakes.
My flashlight passed faded murals.
Room 314 had been Rebecca’s library workroom.
The door was locked.
The same key opened it.
Inside were empty shelves and broken furniture.
Nothing else.
I searched for twenty minutes.
Then I remembered something Rebecca used to say when Claire was little.
If you want to hide something from people, put it where they think they’ve already looked.
Reference.
The library’s old reference section had once been outside room 314.
Most books were gone.
One steel shelving unit remained.
I pulled it away from the wall.
Behind it was a narrow panel.
My fingers found two screws.
Inside the wall sat a small metal box.
My hands trembled when I opened it.
There were three items.