A pang of longing for Horse lodged in Truman’s throat, and his fingers itched to open his phone to the picture Greta had sent him the day before of Horse standing next to an actual horse. It was a miniature horse that Truman had seen around the neighborhood from time to time, and when he’d asked Greta what was up, she’d written cryptically, love is in the air, with a GIF of a cartoon rabbit making heart eyes at a mouse.

The sign for the Queen Bee was a beautifully painted gilt bee against a honeycomb made of book spines. When the door opened, the delicious smell of old books tinged with a hint of mildew filled Truman’s nose and put him in mind of quiet afternoons spent reading on the second floor at Crescent City Books as Isabella the shop cat snoozed in a puddle of sun beside him.

“Hey, Maisey,” Ash said. Truman hadn’t even noticed the woman sitting behind the counter piled with stacks of books as they came in.

“Good to see you, sweetie. Who’s your friend?”

The woman who emerged from behind the counter was a petite white woman with keen brown eyes who looked to be in her fifties. Truman realized that he’d only seen white people thus far on Owl Island.

“This is Truman. Truman, Maisey Osgood.”

“Ah, of course. Greta’s friend.” Before Truman could ask whether perhaps her child was somehow involved in creating something visible on his person, Maisey said, “Carla told me you’d be stopping by.”

“Wow, that’s some phone tree y’all’ve got,” Truman said brightly, relieved that he didn’t, say, smell like Greta’s shampoo which was handcrafted by Maisey’s uncle’s step-nephew or something.

“You’re looking for Agatha Christie novels?” Maisey asked. “Don!” she called before Truman had a chance to correct her. “Can you take Truman to the Christies?”

“Oh, no, no. Sorry. No, there’s an author called Agatha Tark. I think she might have lived on Owl Island back when she was writing—or maybe before. I guess I don’t know. And I was really just wondering if you might’ve known her. Since she was an author, I figure if she lived here she probably came into the bookstore.”

“Who’s Truman?” came a call from across the shop.

“Never mind, Don!”

“What?”

The man Truman assumed was Don picked his way through the alarmingly full aisles between the shelves.

“Oh, hullo, Ashleigh.”

“Don.”

They shook hands. Don was nearly as petite as Maisey, with a shock of white hair and tiny round wire-rim glasses.

“Tell Don what you told me,” Maisey instructed Truman.

Truman did.

“When would she have lived here?”