“We don’t have to work together,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “I’m just telling you about an interesting story I’m chasing down.”
I fold my arms over my chest, watch her face.
“It’s a tale of lost treasure, chainsaws, and seeking justice for a murdered champion red oak tree,” she goes on.
“Northern red oak,” I correct.
“Well, that’s the kind of detail I’d be more likely to get right if you were interested in working together,” June says. “Otherwise, I might really fuck it up and call Glenda a maple.”
I raise one eyebrow.
“June, is that a threat?” I ask.
“If it were, would it work?”
“No,” I say, arms still folded. I glance at the door where Silas disappeared. “It’s none of your business. It’s a few trees, cut down in the middle of nowhere for no reason whatsoever, either vandalism or a stupid treasure hunt—”
“Your trees,” she says.
“They’re not my trees,” I say. “They’re everyone’s trees.”
“You called them your trees earlier,” June points out, her voice softening.
I want to say yes. I do. Desperately. I want to give in because it means time with June, going through maps and logging records and God knows what else while we sit around and talk and drink hot cocoa and she badgers me about naming my dog.
That’s what I found out Friday night, and suddenly, standing here on my mom’s front porch, it hits me with a crash. I always knew she was knock-me-over-with-a-feather pretty, but I like her. I like talking to her. I like being near her and hearing her laugh and more than that, I like being the cause of it.
Besides, she might have figured out the motive behind Girthy Glenda’s murder.
June is studying my face, eyes intent. She takes a step forward.
“Please?” she says, her voice low.
“You’re the most persistent human I’ve ever encountered,” I say.
June just grins. I have to look away, over the gravel driveway, and I contemplate the dumb thing I’m about to do.
“Can you keep a secret?” I finally ask.
“Of course,” she says. “I swear I won’t tell anyone—”
“Not anyone,” I say, and hesitate for just a moment because I’m afraid that I’m about to show my entire hand, give away that I’ve thought of June every three-point-four seconds since she moved back to town.
“Silas,” I finish.
“Ah,” she says, and nods as if my reasons are perfectly clear.
I hope they’re not.
“I don’t see any reason for him to know that we’re working on something together,” I say. “I think it’s better for us, and our friendship, if he just doesn’t know.”
“Agreed,” she says, simply. “I’d prefer not to be quizzed daily on our interactions.”
There it is. That simple.
Before either of us can say anything else, the front door opens.
I tense, but it’s not Silas.
“DESSERT!!!” screams Rusty, as if we’re half a mile away, then goes back inside before we can answer.
“We’ll strategize later,” I tell June. “Pie is important.”
“Yes, it is,” she agrees, and we head inside.Chapter EightJuneAs usual, the moment I walk into the library I get distracted by the New Releases shelf. I’m kind of helpless against books in general, and there’s just something so wonderful and shiny about New Releases.
Maybe a favorite author has a new book. Maybe there’s someone amazing I’ve never even heard of before, or someone with whom I’ve got a passing familiarity who finally writes the book I can’t resist, or someone whose name I heard once but who I’ve been meaning to read.
Plus, it’s free. The library has always been one of my favorite places on earth, because not only are they filled with books, you can read all of them. For free.
I’m reading the back-cover copy of a book called The Splintered Crown, a dramatized historical novel about Mary, Queen of Scots, when someone comes up behind me.
“That one’s okay,” Charlie says, grabbing another book off the shelf and glancing at the back. “Though it had a lot of really detailed descriptions of Scottish weather. It’s raining, it’s cold, I get it, you know?”
Her curly hair is piled on top of her head, the sapphire on her left ring finger glinting even though she’s wearing coveralls right now.
“I don’t even know why I’m looking at books,” I say, sliding it back into place and scanning the shelves. “I’ve got three on my nightstand and a stack of I don’t even know how many on the floor next to it, and yet I’m standing here, looking for more.”
“It’s not hoarding if it’s books,” Charlie says. “Then it’s knowledge collection, and that makes you fancy. Hi there. That many?”
That last part isn’t directed at me. It’s directed at a large stack of books topped by a pair of eyes and a curly mane, about four feet off the ground. The stack totters slightly.
“Yes,” the stack confirms.
“Can you carry that many?” Charlie asks. “You know the rule.”