Page 23 of No Offense

Even Katie grudgingly remarked, as they pulled up in front of the library and easily found a parking space, “At least it’s easier getting around here than it was back home.”

This warmed his heart, though it pained him that she still referred to Miami as home.

“But,” he said, as they walked the neatly swept path toward the library door, “here they have the Snappettes.”

“That’s true,” Katie said, looking thoughtful. Then she paused. “Oh, look, how cute.” She raised her phone to snap a photo of a mother hen that ran by, a dozen fluffy brown chicks scurrying closely behind her. The library grounds were a nesting area for the native chickens that had freely roamed the streets of Little Bridge since Bahamians hadbrought them there in the 1800s. The chickens were popular with tourists, tolerated by locals, and lived long and happy lives since they were protected by city law.

John, too, was pleased. So far, everything was going well. Katie already found the library as charming as he did. Perhaps she’d like Molly Montgomery, too—providing that he, for once, could avoid offending her, and she, for once, could avoid trying to do his job for him.

They’d only taken a few steps inside before he saw that, unfortunately, neither of these things was going to happen.

Chapter Nine

Molly

Molly was minding her own business, reshelving the books she’d neglected earlier that day and keeping Elijah away from Story Time—she’d secured a copy ofItfor him, and he seemed engrossed enough—when Meschelle Davies came bursting in, as breathless and sweaty as Molly had been at lunch.

“Great news,” Meschelle said, not even bothering to whisper, despite Story Time. No one bothered to whisper in the children’s section or anywhere, really, in the Little Bridge Public Library, but some respect might have been given to the volunteer story reader, Lady Patricia, a kindly drag queen who generously gave up an afternoon a week to read to toddlers.

“What?” Molly asked. “Is the photographer here?”

“Not just a photographer. Molly, I wrote the story and filed it—I always write best with a little white wine in me—and it went live online and already got picked up by theMiami Herald. I told you, people love an abandoned baby story. And now Miami Channel Seven News has choppered a film crew down to interview you!”

Molly stared at her. “Meschelle,” she said. “That isn’t what we agreed. You said you were just—”

“I know what I said. But isn’t this better? Think of the publicity this is going to get your library! Donations are going to roll in.”

Molly chewed the inside of her lip. This was bad. Really bad. She’d promised the sheriff she wouldn’t talk about the investigation with anyone. Being interviewed by a Miami news crew would definitely be breaking that promise.

On the other hand, she’d only promised not to talk about the baby’s mother. Surely she was free to discuss Baby Aphrodite.

“Do it!” Henry had appeared from nowhere—as he was wont to do—and was hissing from behind the junior nonfiction section. “Come on, do it, Molly!”

“See?” Meschelle turned her bright eyes back upon her. “You have to do it, even your colleagues say so. And besides, the film crew is already here. They’re in a taxi coming from the airport as we speak.”

Which is how Molly found herself, a half hour later, standing beneath a very bright light being interviewed on camera by a handsome young man named Trevan Wilkinson.

“And how did you feel when you realized what was inside the box?” Trevan asked her.

“Scared,” Molly said into the microphone, exactly the way he’d coached her. “I was really scared.”

Trevan, smiling handsomely, brought the microphone back to his own lips. “Because you were worried for Baby Aphrodite’s life?”

“Exactly,” Molly said. “She was so little, and so cold.”

“Is it true,” Trevan asked, “that you used your own body heat to warm Baby Aphrodite until the paramedics arrived?”

“Yes,” Molly said. “She was freezing.”

Trevan turned to face the camera. “So there you have it, folks. A librarian giving warmth from her own body to save the life of one of her most vulnerable—and tiniest—patrons. Now that’s what I call a true hero. I’m Trevan Wilkerson, Miami Channel Seven News.”

“Cut,” said the producer, whose name was Naomi. “That was perfect. Let’s get some more shots of Molly in the toilet stall, and then we can head over to the hospital for some exteriors.”

“What’s going on here?” thundered a new, particularly deep, male voice, and Molly turned, her heart sinking, to see Sheriff John Hartwell and a young girl in a cheerleading uniform standing in the doorway.

“Cheese it!” cried Elijah, who’d long since put down his copy ofIt, apparently finding the filming of the newscast a little more exciting. “It’s the po-po!”

The cheerleader looked at him and, her cheeks reddening, asked, “What areyoudoing here?”