Chapter 8 Tom
Tom
Detective Sawyer—Shay, I had started thinking of her as Shay now, though the informality sometimes felt strange on my tongue, like a borrowed coat that didn’t quite fit—had sent me a text yesterday evening.
Thirteen hours ago, to be precise. I’d watched the notification appear on my screen and for a moment I just stood there, staring at it.
A date. She was asking me on a date.
The woman who looked at me like she could see straight through skin and bone to whatever rotted underneath, who’d spent years regarding me with professional coldness that bordered on hostility, wanted to have dinner with me.
The same woman I’d slept with less than a week ago, because she—or at least that’s what I assumed the reason was at the time—was bored and had nothing better to do.
I should have replied immediately. Basic social convention demanded it—you didn’t leave someone hanging after they put themselves out there by being the one to reach out first. And yet here I was, paralyzed by something I couldn’t quite name, thumb hovering over the keyboard while my tea grew cold in its mug.
A french fry bounced off my forehead, the sheer absurdity of the gesture cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
“Hello? Earth to Tom?” Naomi waved her hand in front of my face. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
No. No, I did not. How could anything else even matter right now?
“Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what?” she asked, stealing another fry from the basket between us and popping it into her mouth. The fries were meant to be shared, but I stuck to my own plate. Naomi didn’t seem to mind, either way.
“Detective Sawyer,” I answered, seeing no point in lying to her. It was like she had a sixth sense about these things, anyway.
Naomi snorted, the sound falling somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “What else is new? You’ve been obsessing over her since the day you met. It’s actually kind of pathetic, in an endearing sort of way, of course. It’s cute.”
“She asked me out.”
Under different circumstances, I might have found the way Naomi’s mouth dropped open amusing. “What? When? How? Tell me everything—and I mean everything, don’t leave out a single detail,” she asked, excitement radiating off her in waves.
“Yesterday. Via text.” I picked up my phone and showed her the message, watching her face as she read it.
“Holy shit, Tommy.” She handed the phone back like it was something precious and fragile. “This is like… huge. Massive. You’ve had a thing for her since basically forever.”
That wasn’t exactly true, though I supposed from the outside it must have looked that way.
I’d only tried to befriend her initially so she’d stop looking at me as if I’d killed her pet.
But somewhere along the line, in between the carefully cultivated conversations and calculated smiles, I’d lost the reins entirely.
It had happened gradually, so slowly I hadn’t noticed until it was too late to stop it.
The way my pulse would kick up when she walked into a room, how my attention would focus on her like she was the only thing worth observing.
The night we’d spent together had been a catastrophic lapse in judgment, a moment where want had overridden every carefully constructed safeguard I’d built around myself.
I’d touched her like I was starving, and she’d responded in kind—all that ice melting into something molten and desperate.
One night. Just one night. I had assumed that would be the end of it.
And then she’d sent that text.
“So you think I should go out with her then?” I asked, though I already knew what Naomi would say.
“Of course—is that even a question?” She looked at me like I’d suggested something completely absurd. Then her expression shifted, suspicion creeping in around the edges. “Wait. Please don’t tell me you still haven’t talked to her yet. Tom. It’s been a full day.”
I said nothing, which was answer enough.
“Oh my god. What the hell are you doing? You think that a woman like Shay Sawyer is going to wait around on you forever?” She pressed a palm against her forehead, as if not knowing what else to do with herself.
“Look, I say this with love, but you have like, no game. Negative game. You’re operating in the game deficit. ”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means—Send. Her. A. Text. Back.” She spoke slowly, the way someone would to a child who wasn’t quite grasping a simple concept. “Right now.”
My thumb hovered over the keyboard while my mind raced through a thousand different responses, each one feeling inadequate, too eager, or not eager enough.
In the end, I kept it simple, typing out the words before I could second-guess myself.
Does Friday work for you?
I watched the message change from “Delivered” to “Read” almost immediately. Three dots appeared, indicating she was typing, and my heart did something complicated and arrhythmic in my chest.
Took you long enough.
The text read, followed by a second one that appeared right after.
Yes, Friday is fine.
It looked like I was going on a date with Detective Sawyer.
The reality of it settled over me like a weight, pressing down on my chest and making it slightly difficult to breathe. It was only a date. I told myself. Something to pass the time while I was trying to figure out where my friend had run off to.
Still, Friday was only four days away. Four days to prepare myself, to decide which version of me Shay Sawyer would meet at a restaurant—the one that she wouldn’t have at gunpoint given the right circumstances.
I wanted things I had no business wanting, and Friday was going to come whether I was ready for it or not.
I didn’t know what expression I was wearing, but it made Naomi look at me almost pityingly.
“Boy, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
I stayed silent, too afraid of the answer.
* * *
Winslow’s Antiquarian Books seemed to exist in its own pocket of time, ignored by the rush of modern life flowing around it.
The storefront was easy to miss, the gold lettering on the window so worn that the name was almost illegible.
The bookstore’s shabby exterior did nothing to diminish its peculiar charm, however.
If anything, it enhanced it. Warmth enveloped me the moment I stepped inside, carrying the scent of aged paper and cracked leather bindings.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hayes.”
A bright voice rang out from somewhere in the back, threading through the maze of shelves. A second later, a young girl appeared, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fingers bearing the telltale smudges of graphite and ink.
“Hello, Julia.” I smiled at her. “How are you today?”
“Fine, I guess.” She then wrinkled her nose, as if reconsidering. “Actually, that’s not true. Whoever said senior year was the easiest must have either been a pathological liar or homeschooled.”
I chuckled, the sound soft in the hushed space. “We’ve all been there. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Mr. Hayes, you don’t even know what kind of student I am. For all you know, I could be failing everything except PE.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
That earned me a small smile—genuine, pleased, the kind that transformed her whole face. At seventeen, even a passing word of encouragement could go a long way. I remembered that feeling, though my own teenage anxieties had revolved around very different concerns.
“Have you given any thought to colleges yet?” I asked, and instantly regretted it when I saw Julia’s expression dim like a snuffed candle.
She sighed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure if I’m even going. You know how expensive everything is these days.” Her voice dropped, growing quieter. “Not to mention Gran—with me gone, there’s no one else to help her keep the place running.”
No hint of self-pity or resentment colored her words. There was only quiet acceptance.
Family loyalty. Such a rare thing to see nowadays. That she turned out the way she did, after growing up under a man like her father, was remarkable in itself. A small miracle wrapped in ink-stained fingers and tired smiles.
“And what does Mrs. Winslow think about that?”
Julia let out a dry laugh. “She keeps leaving college brochures around the house. Inside my school bag, under my pillow, taped to the bathroom mirror. Last week, I even found one folded inside the toaster.” She shook her head, but her eyes were warm.
“I’m starting to think she’s planning an intervention. ”
“Sounds like someone who believes in your potential.”
Julia offered a small shrug in response.
I knew there was nothing I could say that would untangle the impossible knot of her circumstances. And it wasn’t my place to try, either way. But that knowledge didn’t stop the familiar weight from settling in my chest, heavy and cold as a stone.
“If there’s anything I can do to help…”
Julia smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Hayes. That’s sweet of you to offer, but I can take care of myself.” She grabbed an old cloth from behind the counter and began wiping her ink-stained fingers. “Are you looking for anything particular today?”
“No. Just browsing.”
“Alright, then. Feel free to holler if you need help with anything.”
I carried on, venturing deeper into the bookstore, past the new arrivals, and into the back alcove.
What I was searching for lived back here, bound in cracked leather, spines softened with age.
Water-damaged, foxed, ink-stained books that had survived the elements but hadn’t quite escaped the time.
Forgotten field guides, old weather logs, personal notebooks that had long outlived their authors.
I ran a finger along the edge of a shelf and crouched to pull a warped volume from the bottom.
étude médico-légale sur l’empoisonnement, 1867.
This looked promising. The edges were frayed.
A few of the pages had stuck together, which meant I’d have to separate them carefully, tease the ink loose with a solvent blend I’d been adjusting for months.
Caught up in the book, turning it over in my hands to examine the spine, I only noticed I had company when an old floorboard creaked softly behind me.
“Didn’t peg you for a collector.”
The voice was familiar. Friendly. I looked up to find Naomi’s boyfriend standing a few feet away, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark wool coat.
I’d last seen him at the department’s holiday mixer, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t heard about him since.
Naomi had been singing his praises nonstop—when she wasn’t bright-eyed, distracted, or smiling for no reason at all.
It was entirely uncharacteristic behavior coming from her, this giddy warmth that seemed to follow her around like perfume.
She hadn’t been this taken with anyone in all the years I’d known her.
“It has less to do with collecting and more with restoring,” I explained, carefully sliding the French volume under my arm.
“Taking something broken and turning it into what it once was,” Daniel smiled. “Very poetic.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’m trying to pick out a gift for Naomi. She likes old books. The ones with the scribbles in the margins and stuff. Personally, I don’t really get the appeal.” He paused, offering me an apologetic smile. “No offense intended, of course.”
“None taken.”
Daniel’s eyes continued to drift across the crowded shelves, a faint crease forming between his brows. He looked like a man trying to navigate foreign territory without a map.
“Do you need any help?” I decided to ask.
The look he gave me was almost comical—like I’d just offered fresh water to someone wandering the desert for days.
“God, yes. Please.”
I led him to the front of the store, toward the glass display case near the register.
Inside were the most delicate pieces, things too fragile or specific to sit on general shelves.
One caught my eye immediately—a weathered poetry collection.
The ribbon marker hung limp between the pages, its end unraveling into individual threads.
The margins were filled with pencil annotations, the kind that smudged if you so much as grazed them.
I nodded toward it. “I think she’d like something like this.”
Daniel leaned in, squinting at the case like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. “Looks like it’ll fall apart if I breathe on it too hard.”
“It won’t, trust me. It’s a lot sturdier than it appears.”
He considered it for a moment longer before shrugging. “If you say so. You’re the expert.”
We approached the register together, where Mrs. Winslow sat hunched behind the counter, one elbow propped on a precarious stack of paperbacks as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She wordlessly wrapped the poetry book in brown paper and secured it with a string tied in a neat bow.
“Well, thanks for the help,” Daniel said, turning to me. “I’d probably still be staring at the cookbooks from the 1980s if it weren’t for you.”
“Don’t mention it. I just hope Naomi likes it.” I pulled out my wallet as Mrs. Winslow finished wrapping up my own book.
Daniel offered me a parting nod and moved toward the door. When he opened it, a gust of cold wind rushed inside. Dust motes scattered in the air, caught in the light like ash.
I checked my watch.
I’d better hurry. I had to get ready for my dinner date with Detective Sawyer.