There were just two people in front of Tessa when Rebekah snuck out from behind the register and came toward her, looking overwhelmed and tense. “Tessa, I’m out of ones. Why did everyone suddenly decide to pay in cash tonight? It’s crazy. Could you go grab some more for me from the back room? That would be awesome.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Tessa passed through the aisle of books by authors Q–R and opened the door to the part-office, part-workroom, part-storage area in the back of the bookstore near the exit.

A waist-high pile of books on the left waited to be shelved. Ahead of her, a desk and scribble-covered wall calendar. To her right, a mini-fridge where Rebekah and the other two people who worked here kept their lunches and drinks.

Usually, Rebekah stored extra money in a shoebox on a shelf above the desk, tucked behind a collection of books claiming to know who Jack the Ripper really was. It was the closest thing the Mystorium had to a safe.

Tessa opened the box and found it bereft of ones, with only a dozen or so fives and three twenties. She returned it to the shelf and repositioned the Ripperology books in front of it to keep it hidden.

She’d never known the staff to put money anywhere else, but maybe Rebekah had a new system in place.

Okay, where else would they keep their cash?

She started with the desk drawers. The first one, nothing. Just a few papers. The one below it, envelopes. She was about to close it when the door to the workroom opened, and she turned and found herself looking into the eyes of Timothy Sabian.

55

Timothy hadn’t meant to startle the girl in the office, but by the way she gasped and by the look on her face, he must’ve really scared her.

He held up both hands in a disarming gesture. “Sorry, didn’t mean to burst in on you like that. You must be Tessa.”

She looked at him warily. “How do you know that?”

“Rebekah sent me. Told me she forgot to tell you where the money was.” He did his best to smile in a reassuring way. “They moved it.”

“Oh. Right.”

He gestured toward the desk. “Do you mind?”

“Uh-uh.”

He entered and stepped around her, letting the door close of its own accord behind him.

And that’s when he noticed the ceramic Mystery Writers of America mug beside the computer monitor on the desk. It contained a clutch of pens and pencils. A highlighter. Two markers. And a letter opener—silver and sharp and capering there in the light.

He heard the voice tempt him to pick it up: You’re back here alone. You could take care of things. Take the money to Rebekah and no one would know. No one would find out.

“Yes, they would,” he muttered.

“Who would what?” Tessa said.