“Good to know,” I said, biting back a smile. At least she was honest, and I appreciated her self-deprecating wit. And now that I’d had a moment to study her more closely, the name Alice suited her perfectly, from her demure white blouse to her straight blond hair and velvet headband.

Her cell phone beeped and she jumped, then checked the screen. She shook her head and shot me a beleaguered look. “Sorry. Stuart and I text incessantly. We’re having wedding issues.”

“You have my complete sympathy,” I said, patting her shoulder. I handed her a set of tools and pointed to an empty chair. “Why don’t you sit over there next to Tom, and we’ll get started with sewing signatures?”

One hour later, I walked the periphery of the classroom, helping those who were struggling with the kettle stitch, the intricate nineteenth-century thread pattern used to sew linen tapes to signature pages. For some, the tricky part was drawing the thread through the paper without actually piercing the linen strips that would hold everything together. For others, it was keeping the thread tension even, as they added a new set of signatures to the previous one.

“Ack!” Gina cried. “I’m never going to get this.”

“Yes, you are,” I said, trying not to cringe at her wobbly stitches. “It’s just a little tricky because the book we’re making is so small. When we start on the journals, you’ll have an easier time.”

“I hope so,” she said, unconvinced.

“Don’t forget, you need to link each new stitch to the previous section’s stitches.”

“Oh, God, whatever that means,” she moaned.

I went over to my bag and pulled out a thick manila file folder of reference material. After a quick riffling, I found what I was looking for: a close-up photograph of someone’s hand, sewing the stitch.

“Oh,” she said when I showed her the photo. “That’s what it’s supposed to look like?”

“Yes.” Exactly as I’d showed everyone twenty minutes ago, but I didn’t say that. For a lot of people, this was complicated stuff. I handed her the photo to use as a guide.

“It’s pretty.” She stared at the picture. “This helps a lot.”

“Good. Hold on to that for as long as you need it.”

“Thanks.”

There was a low-level buzz and Cynthia Hardesty grabbed her cell phone. “I’ve got to take a quick break,” she said, staring at her smart phone as she pushed her fingers across the screen. “I need to take care of some personal business.”

Except she called it bidness. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe she thought it sounded cool, but it really didn’t. One thing that bothered me was that she didn’t seem to take the class seriously. She was much too busy with her bidness.

“Would you mind if I ran out for a minute, too?” Alice said. “I’ve finished my sewing and I’m afraid Stuart might be asleep if I wait much longer.”

“No problem,” I said, taking a quick look at her stitching job. “You’re doing really well.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a note of pride. “Be right back.”

“Oh, can I be excused, too?” Whitney asked, her arm bobbing up like an overeager student’s. She nudged Gina. “I need to make those reservations, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Gina said, and winked at me. “She’s got a hot date Friday night.”

“Shh, don’t jinx it,” Whitney said.

“Go ahead,” I said, checking my watch. “I need to talk to someone down the hall. But I should be right back.”

“Are we taking a break?” Marianne asked, looking up for the first time.

“We’ll be taking an official thirty-minute dinner break in a while, but if anyone needs a minute right now, go ahead. For those staying, please continue to work on sewing your signature pages.”

“Before you go,” Jennifer said, “can you show me how that loopy knot thing works again? I’m all thumbs.”

“Yes.” I stopped at her station and demonstrated the weaver’s knot again, pointing out the importance of kinking the linen thread. Then I went around the room and showed each student the kink in the thread, just to be sure everyone was on base.

After Jennifer assured me she could do it on her own, I left the room and headed for Layla’s office. For the last hour, my mind had been fretting about our argument over the Oliver Twist. I’d appreciated her making nice when she brought Alice into the class, but I was still anxious.

I’d formed a plan. I would ask her if I could buy back the book. Or, if that didn’t appeal to her, I could call Ian McCullough, the Covington Library’s head curator and an old college friend of my brother Austin—and my ex-fiancé. And when I say fiancé, I mean we liked each other a lot and tried to pretend it was love, but we both knew it wasn’t. We’re still great friends. Ian might have had a way of tracking down an actual true first edition of Oliver Twist. If he was successful, the Covington might consider it good publicity to donate the book to the Twisted festival auction. It went against the grain to help Layla Fontaine, but the last thing I needed was to have her blackball me in the book arts community because, God forbid, I had too many scruples.

Scruples. How boring!

I skirted the gallery, dark now except for the few pin spots illuminating the wood-block prints and a faint stream of moonlight seeping through the skylight.

From across the wide space, I saw a figure silhouetted against the window of the front door. It was probably one of my students making her phone call, but I couldn’t tell which one. I didn’t see any of the others who’d taken a break. They might’ve gone outside or down to the mudroom for some privacy. It seemed awfully quiet in here, even with two classes in session. Naomi’s pop-up book display created odd shadows on the lower gallery wall. I shivered and wondered why they didn’t turn up the heat a little.

The long north hall leading to Layla’s office was even darker than the gallery. The lights were off, which was odd. Someone from the staff always worked late when classes were held, but both Karalee’s and Marky’s offices were dark. I had to feel my way along the wall as I walked.

I thought about Ned, who ran and maintained the printing press. He never seemed to leave and often closed up on the nights when classes were in session. Did he live in one of the dark rooms down the hall? Maybe it was the absence of light that made me nervous, but I couldn’t help thinking that Ned was one of those guys you heard about on the news. He was quiet and kept his yard clean. Who knew he’d stored the bodies of six ex-wives in his freezer? You could never be sure about guys like Ned.

That wasn’t fair. Ned was a nice guy. It was just too dark in here and my thoughts were turning morbid.

As I got closer to Layla’s office, I could make out a thin line of light under her closed door. I hoped that meant she was still working in there. Maybe she didn’t realize the hall lights were off.

“Layla?” I called.

There was no answer. Perhaps she’d already gone home. I took one more step and nearly tumbled over something on the floor.

I flailed my arms out to balance myself, then found the wall and leaned against it. “Damn. Who leaves stuff in the middle of the hall?”

I didn’t know what it was, but it was something substantial. A bundle of laundry, maybe? I reached down to try to move it and heard a groan.

It wasn’t a bundle of anything. It was a body.

Chapter 3

“Oh, my God.” I grabbed my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered, I cried, “Somebody’s been hurt or—or . . .”

They’re dead. I didn’t say it out loud. I’d heard a groan. They had to be alive.

“I need your location, ma’am,” the woman said.

I gave her the information.

“Are they breathing?” she asked.

“So far. I’ll check to make sure.” Duh, good idea. It was still so dark, I could barely see my own hands in front of my face, but my eyes were beginning to adjust. I hunched down and felt an arm, covered by a soft wool sweater, indicating it was probably a woman. Moving my hand up her arm, I felt her shoulder, then her neck. There was a weak pulse. She was still breathing.