Friday parked her Tercel near Cotton’s house. All the lights were off. In the low, slanting early morning sun, the clipped hedge cast rectangular shadows. From the lawn, fifty or so small blackbirds swirled into the sky like a cloud of mosquitoes. The air smelled of gasoline.
Friday slipped out of the car and sneaked up to the French doors leading to Cotton’s library. The broken panes of glass had been covered with plywood squares.
Friday tried to pull off one of the plywood squares. Too hard. She glanced around, found a gardener’s trowel on the terrace, and used it to pry off the plywood.
The sound the plywood made falling to the terrace froze Friday—but there was no response from the house. So—carefully—Friday reached through the empty pane and opened the door. She replaced the plywood, using the heel of one of her shoes to tack it back on.
Then she entered the dim library.