When I was at St. John’s, I knew Lainey was young and fragile, but seeing her now through the eyes of an adult, it seems impossible that she could have survived such a place.

“She isn’t receiving visitors at the moment,” Jacobs says with a jut of his chin.

I stand up and nod. “Right.”

Well seeing as how I have no plans to mow down a butler well into his sixties, I set the flowers down in front of the photos of Lainey and ask him to make sure she gets them. Then I leave with plans to return the next day.

And I do.

I even develop a routine. I leave work and stop by a florist right by my house so they can put together a bouquet for me.

“Another?” the owner asks with a wink. “You certainly know how to spoil her.”

Then, I go and stand in Fay Davenport’s foyer. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes…Lainey never shows.

By the sixth day, I decide maybe the flowers aren’t right. So, I stop in at a bookstore instead.

It doesn’t take me a long time of perusing the aisles before I land on The Midnight Library. I read it a few years ago and loved it; it felt like a book I immediately wanted to discuss with someone. Now, Lainey can be that someone.

I purchase the book and go through the now-familiar routine of knocking on Fay Davenport’s door and contending with a displeased Jacobs.

He opens the door and delivers a drawn-out “Yes?”

I brush past him, walking into the foyer so we can get this dog and pony show on the road.

“Jacobs, you look well this evening.”

He clears his throat, trying hard to continue to find me unamusing, but his act can only go on for so long. At this point, we’re practically friends.

He closes the door and turns to assess me. “No flowers this evening?”

I hold up the book for him.

“Think she’ll like it?”

“She enjoys reading,” he says, attempting to stay neutral.

“And what has she done with the flowers?”

Hopefully they haven’t all suffered a terrible fate, buried at the bottom of a trash can, shredded in a garbage disposal, crushed beneath the heel of her shoe.

“They’re in her room.”

My eyebrows spike. “All of them?”

He nods a bit reluctantly, as if he’s betraying her by giving me this information.

“Good. When you go alert her of my arrival tonight, you should tell her I have no plans of stopping.”

“Tonight, I won’t tell her anything. She isn’t in residence.”

It’s Friday night, close to 8 PM.

Surely, she’s not…

“Is she on a date?” I ask, sounding indignant.

He nods nearly imperceptibly. “A friend came to collect her. Collette. They went to dinner.”

There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of any feelings.

“Right. Thanks.”

I hand him the book, knowing he’ll pass it on to her. On my way out the door, I turn back to him. “Has anyone ever told you that you missed your calling with the FBI?”