The Rain Sparrow. Линда Гуднайт
it’s nothing serious.”
For all her reasoning to the contrary, the small frown between Carrie’s eyebrows said she still worried.
“Does he come into the library much?”
“Almost every day after school.”
Hayden glanced at his watch. “Which can’t be too long from now.”
“What if he does? How is that helpful?”
A muscle jerked below his eye. He reached up and rubbed as if he had an itch. A tic. A twitch. A mental hiccup in a man with crazy in his genetic code. “If something is happening to him at home, he’s safe here.”
Knowing the kid had a refuge, even for little while, brought Hayden a measure of peace.
“Tawny and I set up a cookie tray in the foyer for after school.” Carrie gestured toward the front of the library. “I think that may be his dinner.”
“Another reason to be concerned.”
“Maybe. But maybe I’m wrong. All of the kids, especially the older boys, gobble the cookies like hungry wolves.”
“Gut feelings count.” Especially his gut. She wouldn’t understand, and he certainly couldn’t explain.
“I care about kids, Hayden. If his home situation is bad—” she bowed her shoulders “—well, I want to be alert to any signs. He’s a nice little boy. Puts the books and magazines neatly back where they belong or brings them to the reshelf cart. Doesn’t turn down the page corners.”
“Librarians get testy about those page corners.” His lips quivered.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Defacing a perfectly wonderful book is a serious thing, especially when we have bookmarks at the desk. Free!”
Letting the grin slip through, he lifted both hands from the tabletop. “Won’t get an argument from me.”
Mr. Franks had taught him that people who respect themselves respect public property, too. This was after Hayden had carved his name on a bathroom stall. He’d never forgotten that lesson or how the event had begun the change that saved his life.
Carrie silently slid her chair back from the table and started to stand.
“If you need any help with your research, let me know.”
“Can you point me to archives of the town’s history?”
“Sure, but you can learn more, especially the colorful, gossipy stuff, from the good ol’ boys down at the Miniature Golf Café. You are guaranteed to get an earful any day of the week.”
“Would you be willing to come along and introduce me? I’ll buy your breakfast.”
Carrie tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. “The good ol’ boys have no trouble talking, but I understand what you’re saying. Someone to break the ice, so to speak.”
“Exactly. Tomorrow morning at eight?”
“I can’t tomorrow. We have an early staff meeting.”
“You pick the day.”
“I don’t work until ten on Thursdays.”
“Thursday it is. I’ll swing by and pick you up at eight.”
“I can meet you at the cafe.”
“You’re safe with me.” He grinned. “I only kill people in my books.”
She tilted her head, mouth pursed, amused. “You think I’m afraid to be alone with a man who devises ways to commit murder?”
“Are you?”
“You saved me from the tornado. That’s nearing hero status in my book.”
He laughed, flirting, enjoying her. “I’ll need your address.”
“I’ll write it down before you leave. Anything else I can help you with?”
Reluctant to lose her company, though not needing anything in particular, Hayden said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Tell me about the dark side of Honey Ridge. Every place has dirty little secrets. Unexplained deaths. Suicide pacts. Murders.”
“In my library?” She drew up straight, pretending insult though her brown eyes sparkled with humor.
“Perfect place to find an unsuspecting victim,” he said. “Her attention is riveted on a book. The villain sneaks up behind her and—” In pure melodrama, he slid a finger across his throat. “Murder in the Stacks.”
She grimaced. “How about Death by Dewey Decimal?”
“Hey, that’s not bad.” His mind started racing with the possibilities. “A serial killer. I’m good at those.”
“Don’t you dare! There are plenty of places in Honey Ridge to commit homicide.” She gave an overly dramatic shudder. “Please no murder in my library.”
A passing patron shot a strange glance in their direction. Carrie backpedaled. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Mayes. We’re talking about books.”
Mrs. Mayes waved both hands. “No need to explain. Nothing like a good suspense.”
Carrie shot a wry glance at Hayden. “We have the latest Hayden Winters novel, The Last Blackbird, two stacks over.”
“Oh, I haven’t read that one yet. Thank you, Carrie.”
The woman disappeared behind a wall of books, and Carrie followed her with her gaze.
“He’s here,” she said quietly.
Hayden swiveled his body in that direction. The Huck Finn look-alike stood in the entry, wolfing down cookies, a camo backpack over his shoulders.
Brody had lost the battle with the cowlick. The sprout of hair waved like a blond feather.
Hayden watched the boy with his usual curiosity, memorizing the little details. After a few cookies, four of which went into his backpack, Brody came into the library and looked around. When his gaze met Hayden’s, his expression flickered.
Hayden lifted a hand and motioned at him. To Carrie, he said, “A conversation won’t hurt anything. Maybe I can learn something to allay our concerns.”
“Sounds good. Want me to go or stay?”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll check the desk and be back in a few minutes.” With her easy, quiet manner, she strode toward Brody. As she passed, she smoothed his hair, said something to him and pointed toward Hayden.
Brody blinked a couple of times and glanced behind him before hitching the backpack higher and approaching Hayden’s table.
“Miss Carrie said you wanted to talk to me?”
“I’m Hayden. Remember from the other night?”
“Sure.” Pale, cautious eyes questioned why Hayden wanted to speak to him. “At Peach Orchard Inn.”
“That’s right. During the big storm.”
“Yeah. It was a good one.”
A kindred spirit, perhaps, in more ways than one? “You like thunderstorms?”
Brody hiked a shoulder. The dirty camo backpack rustled against a faded black Honey Ridge Raptors T-shirt. “They’re okay. Do you?”
“Love them. They’re wildly exciting.”
“Especially when you’re asleep in the woods.” A tiny smile crooked the corners of Brody’s mouth, drawing attention to his cleft chin. Pale eyes twinkled above a splatter of tan freckles. “Camping, I mean.”
“I’ve done that a few times, but I don’t