Chapter Twenty-Three

“Hi. We’re here to see Marcus,” Jamie said, leaning on the receptionist counter in a casual manner.

Cookie stood next to her, a winning grin on his face, full wattage, pointed at the young woman behind the front desk. If the girl were old enough to drink, it would have likely happened this year because her fleshy cheeks, straight blond hair, and young features all pointed to college age, sophomore at best. Jamie could see she wore a royal-blue T-shirt with the Texas A&M Corpus Christi logo on the front.

“Mr. Holliday is helping a student at the moment…”

Jamie waved her hand as if to dismiss any concern. “No worries, really. We’ll just wait in his office like last time. We know where to go.”

Cookie tapped the counter and gave the receptionist a wink. “Thanks for your help.” He followed Jamie back down the hall toward Marcus’s office. The door was closed, and Jamie tentatively reached for the knob and turned it. It was unlocked.

She stepped inside, with Cookie following close behind her, as if she would shield him from any danger that might leap from behind the door. Cookie closed it behind him, and the two stood, face-to-face, with one of Marcus’s most private spaces—his office.

Jamie’s steps came slowly, as though she were sneaking up on a friend. She moved timidly, carefully, until she came to the photos on the wall behind his desk. She glanced at his desk space but saw nothing of any interest—no papers, no planner, no scribbled notes or important phone number hastily written on a napkin. A Tiffany lamp made of stained glass, a pattern of beach waves decorating each panel, sat on the corner of the desk next to a glass jar half full of wrapped chocolate confections. A plain yellow notepad served as the centerpiece, but not a word or thought had been added to its surface.

This guy was good. Careful.

Cookie studied the photographs on a nearby wall. The three images, all related, showcased local themes. In the first one, a sandpiper, small in stature, stood alone on the beach, seemingly scanning the water for its next meal. The second image was of a seagull in flight, its body parallel to the ocean’s waves. The third was of a local fishing boat known for bringing shrimp to the docks early in the morning for eager locals who stood in line to pick up a few pounds of the freshest seafood. Its name, The Optimist’s Club, was painted in bright-blue script across its hull.

Cookie pointed to the photo. “Do you ever go get shrimp there?”

Jamie looked at him, and she was sure the stupidity of his question was evident in her expression. “Sure,” she joked. “You know how I love to cook.”

“My mom has me going there at least once a week to pick up shrimp. She swears they must have the best bait because the shrimp they catch are huge.”

“I do like a good shrimp taco.”

“I’ll hook you up; don’t worry.”

Jamie studied the books, while Cookie took a cursory look around the office. He evaluated a set of golf clubs propped in the corner, some shrouded with black fuzzy covers.

“Why are some golf clubs covered and others aren’t?” he asked. “I mean, do your favorite ones get to stay warm and the other ones know they aren’t loved? How cruel.”

“Who knows? Maybe the clubs double as dusters? I never understood how someone could waste an entire day playing golf.” Jamie turned in Cookie’s direction. “What’s the point, really?”

Her attention turned back to Marcus’s bookshelf, which lined the entire back wall of his office. A few bays were decorated with photos of Marcus standing next to people Jamie didn’t recognize. Small wooden sculptures of island birds lined one shelf, while another shelf served as a display for seashells in every shape imaginable. A sand dollar had been placed in the middle of the arrangement.

Jamie read the names of the books lined up on Marcus’s office shelves and noted an array of business books, memoirs, and local-interest books. The Secret Life of Port Alene bumped up against A History of Fly Fishing, with Historic Corpus Christi on the other side. He also seemed to have an affinity for thrillers, as Brad Meltzer, Lee Child, and Karin Slaughter took up considerable space with several titles per author. She turned her gaze upward to the row of books one step higher than eye level. Her eyes skimmed the row, and that was when she found it.

The Vagabond’s Guide to Europe.

She knew that book.

She knew that book because she had given it to Kristen when the girl had started high school, before Jamie had made the list of family enemies. She signaled to Cookie. “Can you give me a boost?” she asked, pointing to the bookshelf.

Cookie took the few steps necessary to circumvent Marcus’s desk and pushed his chair away to make room for his substantial presence. He placed his hands around Jamie’s waist. “Ready?”

When she nodded, he hoisted her up a row with little effort, holding her suspended, allowing her to retrieve the book. Her forefinger slid across the top of it before she hooked it and pulled it toward her. Once the book was firmly in her hand, Cookie lowered her to the ground.

At that moment, Marcus Holliday walked through his office door, and his eyes immediately went to the book. “What are you doing with that?”

Jamie’s stare threatened to burn through him. “I was going to ask you the same question.”