The next morning I woke early, feeling cold and empty but unsure why. It came to me in a thick, dreadful wave.

Primrose was dead.

The combined agonies of loss and guilt were almost paralyzing, and I lay stil a long time, wanting nothing to do with the world.

Then Boyd nuzzled my hip. I roled over and scratched his ear.

'You're right, boy. Self-pity does no one any good.'

I rose, threw on clothes, and sneaked Boyd out to his run. During my absence a note appeared on the door to Magnolia. Ryan would be spending another day with McMahon and wouldn't need his car. The keys I'd left on his bureau were now on mine.

When I turned on my phone, I had five messages. Four journalists and P & T. I caled the repair shop, dumped the rest.

The job was taking longer than anticipated. The car should be ready by tomorrow.

We'd gone from 'could' to 'should.' I was encouraged.

But what now?

An idea rose from deep in my past. The favorite refuge of a worried or restless little girl. It couldn't hurt, and I might uncover something useful.

And for a few hours, at least I would be anonymous and inaccessible.

Folowing toast and Frosted Flakes, I drove to the Marianna Black Public Library, a one-story redbrick box at the corner of Everett and Academy. Cardboard skeletons flanked the entrance, each with a book held in its hands.

A tal, spindly black man displaying several gold teeth occupied a counter at the main entrance. An older woman worked beside him, securing a chain of orange pumpkins above their heads. Both turned when I entered.

'Good morning,' I said.

'Good morning.' The man showed a mile of precious metal. His lilac-haired companion eyed me suspiciously.

'I'd like to look at back issues of the local paper.' I smiled disarmingly.

'The Smoky Mountain Times?' asked Mrs. Librarian, laying down her staple gun.

'Yes.'

'How far back?'

'Do you have material from the thirties and forties?'

Her frown deepened. 'The colection begins in 1895. It was the Bryson City Times back then. A weekly. The older publications are on microfilm, of course. You can't view the originals.'

'Microfilm wil be fine.'

Mr. Librarian began opening and stacking books. I noticed that his nails were buffed, his clothes immaculate.

'The viewer is in the overflow room, beside the genealogy section. You may only have one box at a time.'

'Thank you.'

Mrs. Librarian opened one of two metal cabinets behind the counter and withdrew a smal gray box. 'I'd better explain the machine.'

'Please, you mustn't bother. I'l be fine. I'm familiar with microfilm viewers.'

I read her expression as she handed me the microfilm. A civilian loose in the stacks. It was her worst nightmare.

Settling at the machine, I checked the box's label: 1931-1937.