It was clear that John had learned an enormous amount from Bill, but he was just an employee—and how much longer could he expect to work at his age? Was Harry being groomed to take over forever? The thought knotted his stomach, briefly. This is my life now. Then Harry told himself to calm down. His father had died less than a week ago, and there was plenty of time to figure everything out. He found his own cutter and began opening boxes.

Toward the end of the day, the bell sounded, the front door opening to a customer for just the fourth time that day. As John had explained, the store did 90 percent of its business online and very little from the actual physical store. Harry went to his post at the cash register. The customer was the woman from the funeral, with the short, dark hair. She was wearing the headband again. Harry felt his cheeks flush at the sight of her. She spotted him and walked right over, almost too purposefully.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I was wondering if you’re hiring. I know there isn’t a sign out front, but I thought I’d check, anyway. I just moved here, and I love books, and so I thought . . .”

Her cheeks were flushed, as well. She was nervous, and the words she’d just said sounded rushed and unnatural.

“Didn’t I see you, on Sunday, at—”

“Oh, that,” she said. “Yeah, I was at the funeral. I saw you, too. You must be—”

“I’m his son.”

“Right, his son. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“You knew my father?”

She looked startled. “Oh, no. I didn’t. It’s going to sound strange, but I just arrived here, and I’d heard of him. I’ve actually been to the Ackerson’s in New York, and I was going to check and see if there was a potential job up here, and then, of course, I heard what had happened. So I went to the funeral. It was a weird thing to do, I know.”

“No, no,” Harry said. “Funerals are public, right? They’re not just for people who knew the person who died.”

“No, really, they kind of are.” She smiled, some of her nervousness dissipating.

“I guess so,” Harry said, smiling back. “Don’t worry about it. What’s your name?”

“It’s Grace. And you?”

She reached a hand over the counter, and Harry took it, telling her his name. Her hand felt small in his, her fingertips cold. Harry knew she was lying to him, or misleading him, about her reasons for going to the funeral, about her reasons for coming to the store. Had she known his father? And if so, then why was she hiding it?

“Why’d you move up here?” Harry asked.