Page 74 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“I’m sorry about before,” Lincoln said before I could fall too far into the quagmire of self-pity. I was more grateful for the interruption than I could say. Self-pity always felt like a wool blanket tossed over my head—not suffocating me, but making me uncomfortably aware of each breath.

“Before?” I echoed.

He waved a hand as if to encompass the entirety of everything we’d ever said or done. “At my house the other day, at dinner.”

“I didn’t notice anything,” I said. “In fact, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you, showing up unannounced like that.”

He shook his head, his frown deepening. “I’m usually better than that. You’re new to town, you don’t know many people, and I should have made more of an effort. Especially if you’re going to be sticking around for a while.” He glanced at me. “Are you? Sticking around, I mean?”

My grandfather was so still and quiet next to me that I knew he was waiting to hear my response. I felt unaccountably annoyed by it. He hadn’t extended anything even remotely approaching an invitation—had done even less to indicate that he wanted me to stick around. Not once had he asked about my mother’s death, what I was doing for money, if I had somewhere to go home to.

Not once had he asked if I was doing okay.

I was struggling to come up with an answer when Mateo trotted back toward our table, refusing all pleas for an encore. He was also, I quickly noted, bleeding from his nose.

“Oh geez. Not again.” Mateo tipped his head back with a groan, but it was too late. The bright red trickle had already taken hold. “Quick. Does anyone have—”

I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and handed it to him. A grimace of distaste crossed Mateo’s face at the sight of it, but his wasn’t the expression I paid the most attention to.

“Where did you get that?” My grandfather snatched the handkerchief out of his hand before it could be used to stanch the blood. Lincoln was forced to wad up a handful of booze-splashed cocktail napkins and hand them to Mateo instead.

“It’s Mateo’s,” I said, bewildered. “Maisey asked me to give it back to him after she dropped a pan of enchiladas. She did something with hydrogen peroxide and what I’m pretty sure was holy water to get the stains out.”

“Why would Mateo have a handkerchief embroidered with the initials NC?”

“Mateo doesn’t have any handkerchiefs. Mateo thinks they’re disgusting and should never be used in polite society. I got that one from—” He cut himself off before casting a glance at me so full of meaning that I knew we’d stumbled onto something big. “From a stranger I met at this very club.”

He didn’t have to say the rest. Neither one of us was a private investigator, but that didn’t mean we were willing to overlook a clue as big as this one:a stranger by the name of Nigel Carthage.

25

I stood holding a tray of four coffees in front of the North Idaho College library, trying to look as though I belonged.

Technically, Ididbelong just as much as every other person streaming past the old fort building or tossing Frisbees on the green lawn across the street. This wasn’t one of those highly academic colleges where hushed tones and marble reverence were required every time you walked in the door. The students’ average age was midtwenties, and most graduates went on to work in administrative offices. No one would ever call these halls hallowed.

Then again, most of the people here weren’t about to launch an investigation into their estranged grandfather’s past alongside a group of people he’d known all of a month. At least the coffee gave me something to do with my hands.

“Oh. You brought coffee, too.”

I turned at the sound of Sloane’s voice. A paper cup was clutched in each of her hands. The sight of those two cups—only two—filled me with a sense of dread that brought out the pit bull in me.

“Where’s Maisey?” I demanded in a voice that even mademewince. “And Mateo? Weren’t they supposed to come with you?”

To my relief, the gruffness of my tone only seemed to make Sloane relax. She even smiled, though it was the same smile she wore when my grandfather was on his worst behavior—a kind of sympathetic curve of the lips that made both of us McLachlans look like the asses we were.

“Sorry. It’s just me today. They both had to work this morning. Maisey couldn’t get anyone to cover her shift, and Mateo…” Her voice trailed off. Her smile became less sympathetic and more like the Cheshire cat fromAlice in Wonderland, which was fitting considering she was wearing a blue dress with what looked like lace napkins attached at the collar.

Not in a bad way, though. She looked…sweet. Like you could trust her to hold your place in line or the secrets that were buried deep in your heart, depending on the demands of the situation.

“Mateo said they’re really floundering to replace me.” She took a satisfied sip from the smaller of the two coffees. “Is it bad that I’m happy about it? I literally cackled when he texted to tell me he’d been called in at the last minute. I think your grandfather is starting to rub off on me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said with perfect honesty. My grandfather didn’t have a kind word for anyone; Sloane had never uttered anything but. It was like comparing apples and…rotten apples. “Would you go back to work if they offered?”

“In a heartbeat. It’s the only place I’ve ever really belonged.”

Words of ready sympathy sprang to my tongue, printed and placed there by every greeting card company known to mankind. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

Her expression told me what she thought of my attempt.