“How am I supposed to know the whole story if you won’t meet with me.”
“Give me your driver’s license.”
Quin actually sat back and gave a small shake of his head, like her request had jangled his thoughts. “My—what?”
She held out her hand. “Your license. I want to be sure you are who you say you are.”
“Why would anybody lie about being Irvin Carmichael the Fifth?”
Still, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. Simple, black leather, thin. He opened it to reveal his Virginia license, and the name he claimed. Besides his address, Dini’s quick mind scanned the photograph. He must have weighed a good twenty pounds more when this picture was taken. The lack of beard alone wouldn’t explain the round, soft face. That explained the certain edge he carried.
“Here’s my deal,” Dini said, opening the bag beside her and rummaging around beneath her costume. There, at the bottom, she found the quilted zippered pouch, which she opened to withdraw her greatest treasure from.
“You’re going to read to me?”
“No. You’re going to read for yourself.”
The title, My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause, was stamped in gold lettering on the front cover of the thin green volume. Her mother had fished it out of a donated books bin at the library, and the way she clutched it made young Dini love it before she ever heard a word. Mom said she’d actually met the author, the subject of the book, who was a very old woman at the time. Since then, there was rarely a day when Dini didn’t have it in her bag, or purse, or satchel—for comfort as much as anything. Even her mind, sharp as it was for numbers and patterns and memories, couldn’t begin to calculate how many times she’d read it. Hundreds, easily. Some passages, thousands. And now, in a gesture that she would have deemed impossible only an hour ago, she handed it across the table to a stranger.
“You have to read this.”
Quin took the book in his hands with what could be seen as either reverence for, or unfamiliarity with, such a thing. “Someone wrote a book about her?”
“She wrote a book about herself.”
A smile spread on his face—one of pure joy and discovery. “Is Irvin the ‘First of His Name’ in here?”
Dini caught the Game of Thrones reference and tucked it away as another detail. “He is, but there’s so much more. You have to know her—Hedda—and her story. The only way to really do that is to read it in her words. She only had a hundred copies printed. I don’t know how we were lucky enough to find one.”
“I don’t believe in luck. There’s a reason, a plan for everything.” He’d opened the book and was gingerly fanning the pages with his thumb.
Dini resisted the urge to leap across the table. “Careful, there. I haven’t torn a page yet, but it’s delicate.” Indeed, the pages were soft, almost cottony around the edges.
Quin opened the front cover carefully and turned the book so Dini could see the displayed page. “I have this picture. The print of it. I could go—”
“No.” Again, self-control. “Before we talk any more about her, you have to know her voice. Before we talk about your great-great-grandfather, you need to hear his voice. This is your family history. This is why you found a box hidden at the back of a closet. So read it.”
“All of it? I mean, I don’t have a problem reading, but…I’d like to see you again. Soon. To talk, I mean.”
Dini felt the slightest and most unfamiliar frisson pass through her as he stumbled through the last sentence. “Not the whole thing. Wait here a second.” She scooted out of the booth and walked down the stairs to the bar, allowing her body to loosen up and her lungs to exhale a breath she’d been half holding since Quin invited himself to join her. Gil was trying awfully hard to look busy, wiping a perfectly clean glass, as Dini picked up a napkin and asked for a pen. She probably had a dozen pens somewhere in the vastness of her bag, but this would be quicker than finding one.
“I know this is kind of a new deal for you,” Gil said, his voice deep and rumbly with friendship, “but these days the kids just put their numbers straight into each other’s phones.”
“Actually, my phone is dead. Would you mind using yours to call me a Lyft?