The next morning when Amelia woke, Charles was already gone, which wasn’t unusual. On workdays he rose long before the sun to clock in at the station. Crime apparently never slept? Rude.
Amelia yawned and stretched, lying spread-eagle for a moment and trying to claim every square inch of their large bed with her small frame. Then she scooted to the edge and picked up her phone.
Four messages.
There was a text from her boss asking her to run a background check on the new morph who’d volunteered to do story hour. Made sense. It was super fun having morphs read books to kids, as they could physically change their vocal cords and create distinct voices for every character. They didn’t want to unwittingly bring a creep around children, though, and Amelia made a mental note to see to it first thing when she arrived at the library. It shouldn’t be too hard to get a background check. She knew a guy. In fact, she was married to the guy.
The next was a text alert for an ebook sale, which she starred for later perusal. (She needed more books like she needed a tear in her wing, buuuut… it didn’t hurt to look. Right?)
There was a message from her sister, Lucy, asking if she had Mom’s recipe for “stuff,” which was actually less vague than an outsider would assume. Yes, she did have Mom’s recipe for “stuff.” Do you want a photocopy, or will a list of ingredients suffice?
Finally, she opened Charles’ “Good morning, beautiful” text, and felt her cheek quirk in a soft smile. He’d punctuated it with a yellow heart and dragon emoji. He sent her a text like this every day that he wasn’t with her for morning tea and coffee. And seven years of marriage later, it still made her feel all warm down to her toes.
Amelia stretched again with a groan, then padded out to the kitchen to make herself some tea. She set the electric kettle to 195 degrees Fahrenheit — the perfect temperature for the black tea with bergamot she was craving. Then she ventured into the bathroom and turned on the shower to its very hottest setting. The water could have blistered a human, but was only just warm enough for Amelia’s liking. Charles had a second water heater installed two winters ago and shut off the temperature safety feature on both of them so Amelia could bask in a near-boiling deluge whenever she felt chilly. Call her crazy, but she was convinced that the second water heater was the most romantic gift ever.
By the time she’d dried herself and dressed in a pair of faded jeans, ballet flats, button-up shirt, and cardigan, her tea was ready and her phone was chiming to usher her out the door.
Amelia had dozens of alarms set on her phone that went off at all hours of the day (much to Charles’ dismay). They were a necessary evil, unfortunately. She’d long since learned that she couldn’t be trusted to arrive anywhere on time if she was distracted by a new book or a podcast, as was all too often the case.
She took a hearty swig of scorching tea, grabbed her purse and keys, and hurried out the door.
Four hours later, Amelia teetered precariously on the highest step of a spindly spiral staircase to re-shelve a wayward mystery novel.
So far this morning she’d run a background check on their morph story time reader, overseen a mommy-and-me painting class, and helped a faerie woman access family history records from the interdimensional FaeFam database. She had a book signing to set up for later for a local author and was currently taking advantage of a lull in the day’s activities to get some books returned to their homes.
A soft tinkling noise up front told her that someone had arrived and wanted her attention at the front desk. So she climbed down quickly and brushed off the front of her blue cardigan before hurrying to help the patron.
“Welcome to the Valehaven Public Library. Can I help you find anything?”
The man standing by the front desk quickly dropped the brass nameplate he’d been holding. Its clatter was muffled by papers scattered across the desk.
Amelia Kevrinhart, Senior Librarian
That was her nameplate. Amelia’s brow furrowed. The man glanced around the room before leaning in close. His balding head was sweaty, and his breath came out in labored gasps. Curiosity — and just a touch of apprehension — tickled Amelia’s spine.
“Sir, are you alright? Do you need me to call someone?”
Her eyes roved over his attire, which was extremely worse for wear. He had several days’ stubble on his chin in a way that screamed neglect rather than style. Charles had a bit of scruff too, but he kept it neat and intentional. This unfortunate soul just looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week. Looked and smelled. The overpowering scents of stale smoke and alcohol lingered on him in a way that rarely boded well for anyone on a bright Tuesday morning. Amelia’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.
See? She thought to herself sternly. This is why you can’t ever again. Not even one.
There was more, though. Beneath the rough odor, Amelia smelled something… flowery. It was cloyingly sweet. Almost sickly. That saccharine scent seemed familiar, but was hard to make out without taking a deeper whiff. Which Amelia was not about to do. Her sharp dragon senses were already overpowered by the smell of a desperate man drowning his sorrows.
The man peeked over his shoulder again and stuffed his hands in his suspiciously bulging pockets. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t speak.
Amelia cleared her throat and smiled gently. “Is there a book I can help you find? Or a resource? If you’re not quite sure what you’re looking for, perhaps you could tell me your situation, and I’d be happy to let you know what’s available.”
The man opened his mouth and moved his lips for a moment. No sound came out. He tried again and nearly choked on the effort. He ran a hand through his oily hair and looked at Amelia with a pleading gaze. His rich brown eyes seemed like they might have been warm and inviting… once. Now they were just desperate.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Amelia, grimacing slightly from embarrassment. Perhaps the man could not talk? Or couldn’t hear her? She felt rude, but also wasn’t sure how she was supposed to help him if she didn’t know what he needed. “Could you… maybe write it down?”
To her surprise, the man nodded eagerly. Almost as if he’d been waiting for her to make that exact suggestion. Amelia reached for a pad of sticky notes and a pen, but the man waved her off. He pulled a wad of crumpled notes from his bulging pocket and shuffled through them as if looking for a specific one. When he found it, he let out a breath of relief, then checked over his shoulder again as if afraid they were being watched. Spooked by his wild behavior, Amelia looked around too. There was no one. The man pushed the note across the table to her and gestured eagerly for her to pick it up and read.
Amelia did so and was surprised to find that it was a sheet of college-ruled paper, hastily torn out of a notebook, and covered with dozens of other tiny bits of paper, cut out and glued to the front in haphazard lines. Each piece had a letter that was a different color and font from the others. Together, the pieces formed words. It resembled how Amelia would have imagined an old-timey ransom note from a 99¢ detective novel.
Are you Amelia Kevrinhart, it read.
Amelia glanced up at the man and nodded slowly. “Yes, I am. Please, sir, I’d love to help, but…”
The man looked relieved and waved away her concern. Then he sifted through his notes again and slammed another one onto the desk before her. It too was made up of cut-out letters glued to a page. Amelia’s throat tightened, and her hands grew hot as she read.
Are you Detective Charlie Kevrinhart’s wife?
