pile of papers, pushed her black-rimmed glasses higher on her nose, and called to Josy from behind the wooden checkout counter.
“Let me know if I can help you find anything. My name’s Maggie Cartright. I’m the full-time librarian. We don’t have too many customers this time of the morning, so don’t be shy if you need something.”
“As a matter of fact, I do need some help. I’d like to open a new e-mail account. Can I do that here?”
“Sure can, if you want to use one of those free servers like Yahoo or Hotmail. I’ll show you what to do.”
Maggie Cartright bustled around the counter, apparently deliriously happy to be of service to someone. “Course, I’ll need to see some ID.”
“Oh. No problem.” Josy opened her purse, thankful she hadn’t attempted to use another name while in Thunder Creek. She showed Maggie her driver’s license and followed her to the single computer set up at a metal desk near the nonfiction bookshelves.
“It isn’t hard, not a’tall. I took some computer classes at the university—they held a seminar for the librarians in five counties and we learned everything we need to know to operate these things. All you have to do is figure out a screen name and sit yourself down and . . .”
It was surprisingly easy. Only a few moments later, Maggie had retreated to her desk and Josy sat alone at the computer, staring at the screen, her fingers poised to type in her new screen name.
“Tootiebird.” She typed it in with a small grimace. Ricky ought to instantly recognize that name. May Hammond had owned a parakeet named Tootiebird, a shrill, filthy little thing that had nipped at any finger that ventured inside her cage.
But when it came time to actually write the message she found herself hesitating, drawing a deep breath.
Middle name, Josy,
Ricky had said.
You know the one.
Middle name. Add my age.
Oh, yes, she knew exactly what middle name Ricky meant. Karl Hammond’s middle name had been Theobald—a fact that had inspired a great deal of derisive laughter among the foster kids in the Hammond house, perhaps in part because Karl himself was bald, or perhaps because Ricky led everyone in calling him Theobaldo behind his back. It had been the only defense she and Ricky and the other kids that had come and gone in the Hammond home had had against the man who’d thought nothing of locking any of them in a closet if they didn’t make their beds neatly enough or if they spilled their milk on the kitchen floor.
So . . . Theobald it must be. And Ricky, two years older than she, was twenty-nine. She could only hope that Ricky was continuing to use his Hotmail server—but with a new account registered under Theobald29. But now that she was ready, she hesitated, her fingers resting on the keyboard as she inwardly debated how much to say.
She must be getting paranoid, because she was too scared to say much that might get into the wrong hands. The chances of anyone tracing one e-mail under a new account seemed slim, but she wasn’t about to be too forthcoming until she knew her post was going straight to Ricky, no mistakes.
“Hope this gets to you,” she typed. The silence of the library was deep and complete, save for the whir of the ceiling fan and the rustle of the librarian’s paperwork at the check-in counter.
And the tiny click of the keys beneath her fingers.
“I’m safe . . . I think. And I hope you are too. Write back.”
She hit
send
and watched her message disappear.
For a moment she just sat at the computer, resisting the urge to write to Reese or Jane, to let them know she was okay, to find out what was happening at the design studio.
It was frustrating to think that with a few keystrokes and the
send
button she could be in touch with them, but she dared not. For their sake as well as hers.
It was hard to believe she was in danger while she was here in Thunder Creek. The town was peaceful, quiet, set amid the lush, breathtaking openness of vast
“Let me know if I can help you find anything. My name’s Maggie Cartright. I’m the full-time librarian. We don’t have too many customers this time of the morning, so don’t be shy if you need something.”
“As a matter of fact, I do need some help. I’d like to open a new e-mail account. Can I do that here?”
“Sure can, if you want to use one of those free servers like Yahoo or Hotmail. I’ll show you what to do.”
Maggie Cartright bustled around the counter, apparently deliriously happy to be of service to someone. “Course, I’ll need to see some ID.”
“Oh. No problem.” Josy opened her purse, thankful she hadn’t attempted to use another name while in Thunder Creek. She showed Maggie her driver’s license and followed her to the single computer set up at a metal desk near the nonfiction bookshelves.
“It isn’t hard, not a’tall. I took some computer classes at the university—they held a seminar for the librarians in five counties and we learned everything we need to know to operate these things. All you have to do is figure out a screen name and sit yourself down and . . .”
It was surprisingly easy. Only a few moments later, Maggie had retreated to her desk and Josy sat alone at the computer, staring at the screen, her fingers poised to type in her new screen name.
“Tootiebird.” She typed it in with a small grimace. Ricky ought to instantly recognize that name. May Hammond had owned a parakeet named Tootiebird, a shrill, filthy little thing that had nipped at any finger that ventured inside her cage.
But when it came time to actually write the message she found herself hesitating, drawing a deep breath.
Middle name, Josy,
Ricky had said.
You know the one.
Middle name. Add my age.
Oh, yes, she knew exactly what middle name Ricky meant. Karl Hammond’s middle name had been Theobald—a fact that had inspired a great deal of derisive laughter among the foster kids in the Hammond house, perhaps in part because Karl himself was bald, or perhaps because Ricky led everyone in calling him Theobaldo behind his back. It had been the only defense she and Ricky and the other kids that had come and gone in the Hammond home had had against the man who’d thought nothing of locking any of them in a closet if they didn’t make their beds neatly enough or if they spilled their milk on the kitchen floor.
So . . . Theobald it must be. And Ricky, two years older than she, was twenty-nine. She could only hope that Ricky was continuing to use his Hotmail server—but with a new account registered under Theobald29. But now that she was ready, she hesitated, her fingers resting on the keyboard as she inwardly debated how much to say.
She must be getting paranoid, because she was too scared to say much that might get into the wrong hands. The chances of anyone tracing one e-mail under a new account seemed slim, but she wasn’t about to be too forthcoming until she knew her post was going straight to Ricky, no mistakes.
“Hope this gets to you,” she typed. The silence of the library was deep and complete, save for the whir of the ceiling fan and the rustle of the librarian’s paperwork at the check-in counter.
And the tiny click of the keys beneath her fingers.
“I’m safe . . . I think. And I hope you are too. Write back.”
She hit
send
and watched her message disappear.
For a moment she just sat at the computer, resisting the urge to write to Reese or Jane, to let them know she was okay, to find out what was happening at the design studio.
It was frustrating to think that with a few keystrokes and the
send
button she could be in touch with them, but she dared not. For their sake as well as hers.
It was hard to believe she was in danger while she was here in Thunder Creek. The town was peaceful, quiet, set amid the lush, breathtaking openness of vast
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