“Could somebody still have access?” Holt asked.
“The librarian can. Four volunteers. And whoever has the old tablet if it wasn’t reset.”
The officer photographed the screen with her own device. “Don’t delete them.”
A message appeared beneath the newest image, written in ordinary text rather than embedded in the photograph: Please don’t tell anyone where the boy is.
Mara felt a cold tightening beneath her ribs. “What boy?”
She had worked with children for eleven years, first as a teacher and then as a part-time storyteller. Dozens came through the library. The boy in the raincoat could have been one of them, although his face was only partly visible. She searched her memory for the shaved head and the way he held his sleeve in one hand.
Then she remembered a boy named Eli, perhaps twelve, who had come to a library reading with a woman in a blue coat. He had asked whether stories ever became real if enough people repeated them. Mara had told him stories could make real people act differently. He had nodded as though she had answered a question she didn’t understand.
The woman in blue had kept one hand on his shoulder the entire time.
Holt took the phone. “We need to establish if the boy is missing. But we also need to know who is sending these images and why they’re being attributed to you.”
Across the street, a cream-colored hatchback stopped. A man climbed out carrying a roll of clear plastic and a tool bag. Mara recognized him as Tomas Vale, a window repairer she’d once hired when a storm broke the upstairs pane. He waved cautiously.
“Did you call somebody to board it up?” Holt asked.
“Not yet.”
Tomas came to the front path. “A woman named Willa called. Said you might need a temporary covering and that I shouldn’t enter until the police said it was all right.”
Holt considered that information. “Where is she now?”
“Didn’t say. She sounded upset.”
Tomas fixed the glass opening while Holt spoke to another officer outside. Mara watched the plastic sheet rise over the jagged frame. It snapped faintly in the breeze, making the room feel like a tent on a cold beach.
When the officers left, Holt gave Mara a direct number. “Don’t approach Willa on your own. We want to speak with her. If that man returns, call immediately.”
Mara thanked her. But an hour later, after the repairer drove away, Mara found a folded yellow receipt under the welcome mat. On its blank reverse Willa had written six words in shaky capitals: HE HAS ANOTHER WAY INSIDE.
Chapter Three: The Other Way
Mara locked every door and went upstairs. There were two windows facing the rear yard, one in the spare bedroom and one above the landing. Neither showed any obvious damage. The attic hatch was closed. The garage door was secured. She checked the bathroom cabinet because panic made people do absurd things, then forced herself to stand still and think.
