He was washed and dressed. Gray beard, blue eyes, white teeth. The man she was married to had once spent fifteen consecutive days in bed, and now he looked like an advertisement for a retirement home for active seniors; she was stupefied by how much she resented it. She calculated that she had thirty minutes longer to sleep. She turned her back to him.
“You’re in the newspaper. The library is.” He set a mug of coffee on her night table and then the newspaper on the opposite side of the bed so she could see the frowning photo of Miriam on the front page next to the cathedral of the library’s inner stacks.
She sat up.
The rare books library thought it was just unlucky earlier this year when a rare Plantin Polyglot Bible, printed between 1568 and 1572, went missing.
“The Plantin Polyglot Bible closes the most notable gap in our collection of post-1500 bibles,” said Maximilian Hubbard, a former Catholic priest and the library’s religion collections coordinator, when the book was acquired.
He had no idea that the book would soon go missing, alongside one of the institution’s librarians. Miriam Peters was reported missing two weeks ago. A source familiar with the case, speaking on background to reporters, said Peters is suspected of having made off with the Plantin Bible and at least one other work from the library’s vast and valuable collection.
“Who else has seen this?” Liesl asked John.
“Liesl. It’s the front page of the newspaper. We’re not in the boom days of journalism, but it’s the front page.”
“If we leave now, can we buy them all before anyone else is awake?”
“You didn’t tell me about Miriam.”
“Of course I did. I told you she was missing.”
“That she was missing. You didn’t tell me that you suspected her of the theft.”
“I don’t suspect her. But she is suspected.”
“Nice girl, that Miriam. I always assumed you quite liked her.”
“Do I stink? Can I run in now without a shower?”
“You need a shower. Would you like to do some breathing exercises?”
“I don’t think you understand what this news story means for me.”
“I understand precisely. But this is about more than your work. Miriam is someone you care about.”
Liesl threw the newspaper aside so she didn’t have to look at the familiar wounded expression on Miriam’s face as she contemplated what to do next.
Liesl felt nauseated with guilt; there was no way to tell John of his role in her quiet detachment from Miriam. Ashamed, embarrassed, disgusted with herself for looking the other direction when Miriam’s demeanor began to look too much like John’s and the weight of another John seemed too heavy.
“A coworker,” she said, her voice creaking.
“Your protégé, I thought.”
“I told you she was missing,” Liesl said.
“You told me half the story.”
In the early days of their marriage, the smell of toast in the kitchen meant John was up early to fix breakfast for her, and in the later days of their marriage it meant he couldn’t get out of bed and that Hannah had cooked dinner for herself after school. He had put two slices in the toaster before going outside to get the paper. They were forgotten now, gone cold and stale. But the smell of toast lingered when she rushed down to the kitchen with wet hair and her blouse unbuttoned.
“It’s going to look as though I leaked to the press.”
He looked at her like she was a stranger. “That’s your concern?”
“It’s one of them.”
He sat in a creaky chair at the creaky kitchen table. “Who cares what people think?”
She did not sit down beside him.
“Everyone—humans—care what people think,” she said.
“A young woman has disappeared!” he said. “And her reputation is being ruined. She is being called a thief while she can’t defend herself.”
“I know that. Of course I know it’s terrible.”
“Then why are you thinking only of yourself?” he said. “Are you still not telling me the truth? Is it that you suspect Miriam too?”
“Her disappearance is suspicious,” said Liesl. “Right as the thefts were discovered.”
John got out of his chair and walked to the toaster, taking the cold bread out and handing it to her on a napkin.
“You should eat something,” he said.
“I should go to work.”
***
The glass towers of the business school sent darts of early morning light into Liesl’s eyes. She dropped her head to stave off the sun and walked the rest of the way to the administration building looking at the scuff on the toe of her left shoe.
She didn’t make it all the way inside before encountering Garber and his bicycle helmet. “I’m happy to not have to hunt you down today.”
He held the door for her, and she, still worried about that scuff, went into his office.
“It wasn’t me,” Liesl said.
“I know it wasn’t you,” he said. “That doesn’t mean it’s not your fault.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. Garber hung his bicycle helmet on his coatrack.
“You called the police.”
He stood right in front of her. She hadn’t sat down, so he wouldn’t either. His gray hair was slightly sweaty from the bike ride.
“To report a missing person,” Liesl said, running her hands through her still-damp hair. “What choice did I have?”
“That’s not the question,” Garber said.
“Then what is the question?”
“Look,” said Garber, “you asked why I considered you at fault.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the paper.
It lay where he tossed it, on the coffee table in the office’s seating area. The picture of Miriam was uglier than Liesl remembered. She put her hands on her hips to stare down at the photo. In doing so, she realized she had missed a belt loop on her trousers and her black leather belt was riding up slightly on her left hip.
“Without a police investigation, there’s nothing for the press to write about.”
“You don’t think the police leaked it?” she asked.
The picture of the library was even nicer than Liesl remembered.
“I don’t care who leaked it. The minute there was paper—official reports, emails—there was going to be a leak. Any sensible leader would know that. Christopher would have known that. And you should have too.”
Liesl moved her left side away from him, fingers twitching at her hip, hoping to correct the belt before he noticed.
“I should get to the library. There will be questions.”
“There will. And I’ll thank you not to answer any.” He insisted on standing face-to-face with her, thinking her half turn was a way of evading his authority.
“What would you like me to do?”
“Use the press office,” said Garber.
“The press office?” Liesl said. She managed to hook her thumb around the belt, and she turned her body away from him again. “You think there will be more press?”
“The story is delicious. A rogue librarian.” He stepped in front of her again.
“I don’t think she did it,” Liesl said.
Garber picked the paper up and looked at Miriam’s picture. Her hair hung to her chin in limp curls, and her eyes looked like they were two different sizes. Liesl took his moment of distraction as an opportunity to give the belt a yank so at least it was level with her trousers. The loop would come later.
“So you say. But nothing matters less than the truth now that the press is involved.”
There was a break in the conversation. A long enough break that Liesl thought she could leave. She was cold with defeat; she had been since the news of the article had woken her up that morning. The scolding was robbing her of the last of her strength, and she wanted to get back out into the air.
“There will be donor questions.”
“I know,” she said. “Would you like me to route those to your office as well?”
“Not unless you have to,” Garber said. “Just try your best to reassure them. Can you manage that, at least?”
“What do you suggest?”