“Left here.” Isobel pointed.
Gwen put on her signal. She pulled into the left turning lane. The arrow flicked green.
“Isobel, did you really see something in the lunchroom today,” she asked, “or were you just playing around?”
Isobel swallowed, not sure if she should answer. How could she answer? As far as she knew, the line “I see dead people” had already been taken.
“Did that bird hit my window on purpose? ’Cause you know, I don’t think I can take much of that. Not without the promise of sending you my therapy bills later. Are you listening to me, Isobel?”
“Just a bird,” Isobel murmured. She turned away from the lie to look out her window.
They passed a group of college students on the right, huddled on the sidewalk, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. Isobel envied them. They all looked so normal in their jackets and blue jeans, scarves lacing their necks, hands stuffed in their pockets, probably talking about their next class or Halloween plans, totally unaware.
“Turn here,” said Isobel automatically when they reached the intersection to Bardstown Road. Gwen swerved to make the turn. Either she still had the jitters or she was mad.
“There,” she said, pointing for Gwen to pull over. Gwen followed the order. She put the Cadillac in park, turned off the engine, and pulled the keys into her lap.
Isobel grabbed the door handle, and Gwen, apparently not willing to wait in the car, got out too. Together they stepped up to the front of the tiny used bookstore.
Varen had to be here, Isobel thought. There was nowhere else for him to go. If he left school, this was where he would come. He would be here, and she could tell him everything. With that thought stoking her courage, Isobel opened the door and stepped inside. Gwen followed.
She caught that familiar, heavy scent of stale air, and the rusty belt of bells clanked as the door shut behind them.
“What is this place?” Gwen whispered. “What are we doing here? Whoa, is that a first edition?”
Isobel raised a finger to her lips. She led the way, and they wove through the shelves toward the vacant counter, stepping over stacks of books, finding neither Bruce nor Varen.
Then she heard that familiar rattling cough. It came from somewhere at the rear of the shop. Isobel followed the sound across the rickety floor and into the back room, stacked with all the newer-looking nonfiction. Bruce was there between the rows, taking books one at a time out of a cardboard box marked NON-FIC WILDLIFE in Varen’s careful, antique scrawl. He brought each book he drew out of the box up close to his face and examined it with a sweep of his good eye before finding a place for it on the shelf.
Isobel stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, not wanting to startle him. A distracted Gwen bumped into her from behind, unleashing a muffled “Oof” that made Isobel sure then that they were being ignored.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bruce? I’m looking for Var—”
“Not here,” he grunted, continuing to shelve. Isobel was taken aback. This was not the kind-if-loopy man she remembered from her last visit.
“Do you know where he is?” she tried, moving closer to him. Gwen remained in place, watching, her car keys clinking between nervous fingers.
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Isobel frowned, unsure where his sudden dislike had come from. Didn’t he remember her? “I—I think he could be trouble.”
“Could be!” he scoffed. He lowered the book in his hand, finally looking at her. He scrutinized her with his good eye, frowning at her cheer uniform. Then the coughing ensued once more, harsher, mucus rattling in his chest. “I think a bloody nose . . . and a busted lip says . . . that the trouble’s already found him. Guess the thing you’ll tell me next is that you hadn’t anything to do with that.”
Brad. He’d been telling the truth. But how could that be when she’d seen Varen only an hour ago? His face— he had been fine.
Bruce scowled at her, apparently taking her silence for confirmation of whatever suspicions he’d been harboring. His mouth tightened into a line, quivering with anger. “I told you now, I don’t know where he’s got to. Hasn’t said a word to me since he came in like that this morning. Went upstairs and slept till noon. Missed school. Left a half hour ago. Go upstairs and look for yourself.”
Isobel, her mind dulling as it tried to compute the barrage of conflicting information, actually turned to the attic door. She was stopped from making any progress toward it, though, by a soft hand on her arm. “Isobel,” said Gwen. “C’mon. He’s not here. We would have seen his car outside. We gotta go.”