Page 17 of The Librarians

After that, their conversation had promptly veered off to his mother’s love of romantic comedies—and her mother’s equally strong adoration of celluloid tragedies, romantic or otherwise.

That had established a pattern: his charming deprecation of his profession, a few anecdotes here and there of his days working in museums, and perhaps an analogy or two on what it was like trying to get artists and billionaires to see eye to eye. But no more than that—never more than that.

It was a refreshing change from the men of her family, who talked about work to the exclusion of almost everything else. She never suspected that this modesty, this disinclination to take up all the air in the room, was in service of deception.

“You are sure you’ve had no communication from him for the past five days?”

She nods slowly. “Before he left we agreed that we’d check in with each other once a week—to exchange photos, so that if anyone asked we’d still appear up-to-date on each other’s lives.”

“And you did not try to keep tabs on him through social media, his or his friends’.”

A good guess—or does Detective Chu already know her entire browsing history?

“No,” she replies simply.

“No, indeed. But you spent a great deal of time looking up the island of Madeira. More specifically, clicking through fifty Airbnbs and thirty different real estate listings—in the last three days alone. Thinking of relocating?”

Has she looked at that many? She remembers only an indistinct continuity of hope, regret, more hope, and more regret.

“I visited Madeira once, when I was much younger. I’ve always wanted to go back.

At a time like this—or rather, at a time like the past few days, more than two weeks into my trial separation with little hope that it would be followed by anything but a real separation, I wanted to lose myself in something that made me happy, however momentarily. ”

But, of course, truth is that unfiltered, unedited photo everyone skips over. Detective Chu shows his disdain immediately. “Come now, Ms. Lee. What is your real interest in Madeira?”

A deep green canyon. Tall, speckle-limbed plane trees casting leafy shadows on the terrace.

Two young people, leaning on the parapet separating them from a precipitous fall.

They were having a conversation about happiness, of all things, the way it is sometimes possible to have substantive discussions with a complete stranger.

So , asked the young man, what do you do?

He had pierced ears, not just lobes but cartilage, yet wore no earrings. She didn’t normally care one way or another about men wearing jewelry, but she was curious what he would look like with a barbell that spanned the width of one helix and a big spiky cuff on the other ear.

But in the meanwhile, she had to confess, rather embarrassed, I don’t have a job yet .

What? But you are like a million years older than me. I thought you must already be a senior director, plotting to dethrone the chief executive.

She laughed. Hey, I got my master’s only this past summer. And I’ve been traveling since.

He smiled. Ah, those dimples again. Okay, rich lady who obviously doesn’t need to work, what did you study at uni?

Architecture. My mom wanted me to be an architect, because she herself would have liked to have been one. But it’s not for me.

What is for you, then?

She wanted to give him a good answer. A great answer, unique and fascinating. But all she had was an honest and honestly boring I don’t know.

He considered her. His gaze was warm and curious—her heart sped up from his nearness, his attention.

What makes you happy? he asked.

They’d circled back to happiness again.

When she was small, her dad sometimes asked if she was happy. When they rode the teacup at Disneyland. When he took Mom and her to see fireworks on the Fourth of July. When he got her a new bicycle. She’d always nodded hugely and hugged him hard.

But after she moved to Singapore, she didn’t remember anyone asking about her happiness anymore.

Maybe it was an age thing—kids understood and handled happiness much better than their adult counterparts.

Or maybe it was because everyone was overwhelmingly concerned that she not squander her great good fortune.

She was a real live instance of The Princess Diaries , an ordinary girl who became a great heiress overnight.

With that kind of exceptional luck, it would be downright vulgar to aspire to happiness too.

I don’t know what makes me happy , she said after a while.

Hmm , said her companion of the past ninety minutes—or had they even known each other for that long? Fair enough—I’m not sure I do either. Do you have anything you look forward to, either on this trip or when you get back home?

She did. She’d stumbled into an all-women tabletop gaming group back in Singapore and it quickly became one of her favorite monthly experiences. And on this cruise, she met up with a bunch of fellow passengers who played in the evenings; some even brought their own favorite games from home.

Umm, board games?

Okay, you really are much older than me. I see that now.

She laughed again. It was funny because earlier she’d indeed tried to convince him that there existed a real and substantial age gap between them.

Design tabletop games, then , he suggested.

What do you mean?

Every game you play was designed by somebody. They didn’t spring fully formed onto retail shelves. Someone conceived them, developed them, and published them.

But I don’t know anything about designing games.

You don’t need to be a game designer to design games. Monopoly—or the game it was based on—was designed by a writer who wanted to illustrate certain economic principles. A woman, by the way.

How do you know that?

Because I was the idiot who, when my cousin told me that Monopoly was developed by a woman, shouted “Not a chance! It says ‘Parker Brothers’ right here on the box.”

She laughed some more.

Would she have tried to create a board game if she’d never heard his gentle exhortation? She doesn’t know—certainly no one else ever lobbed that idea at her. But he did suggest it, and she did give it a shot—and the rest, as they say, is history.

Her first two games did well; the third one took off in a way no one anticipated, least of all her.

The trip to Brussels was a celebratory one.

But as she sat by herself on that Singapore-to-Frankfurt flight, she wished only that she could have told the lovely young man that his long-ago idea had given her life structure and purpose.

But since she couldn’t, since that ship had sailed, capsized, and sunk ages ago, she chose to smile when Kit sidled up to her.

And never told him that he was the one she’d settled for.

“My real interest in Madeira?” She uncrosses and recrosses her ankles.

“I received this apartment as a wedding gift, Detective Chu. I believe I can get my grandfather to splurge on a little divorce present, too. Frankly I didn’t find any appealing properties on Madeira.

Maybe a place in Lake Como would be more my speed. Or even Scotland.”

Detective Chu’s lips thin—he believes it.

Hazel exhales, exhaustion rolling over her like a fog.

Her doorbell chimes, the otherwise ordinary sound harsh and ominous under the circumstances. She blinks, her eyes as dry and brittle as glass.

“Your colleagues, Detective?” she asks Chu.

The police look at one another. “No.”

She specifically instructed Carmela and Marisol not to tell her mother—or anyone, for that matter—about the police raid. She has no next-door neighbors—her grandfather’s generous present occupies the top three stories of the building. Who can it be, then, so early in the morning?

The doorbell shrills again.

Hazel rises. Kit. Normally the sound would not make her think of her husband, but two days ago she changed the code and deleted his fingerprints from the authorized list.

For the first time she’s glad of Detective Chu’s presence: She won’t have to explain the lock change to Kit. And then alarm finally spikes through her depleted brain.

Kit has returned home at the worst possible time.

Detective Chu is ahead of her, charging for the door. She picks up her pace. Shit. She owes it to Kit, doesn’t she, to at least shout a warning— Fly, you fool!

But as the intercom comes into view, it is her mother on the screen, raising her hand to ring the doorbell yet again.

She taps on the intercom, intending to tell Lillian Kuang that it’s not a good time.

But before she can even offer a greeting, her mother’s voice blares. “Hazel, are you okay? Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been calling and calling. Your mother-in-law has been trying to reach you for three hours.”

A strange chill pools at the base of Hazel’s spine. “Why is she calling me? Is everything okay?”

Did she find out that her son is now a wanted man?

“No, everything is not okay. And why don’t you open your door? Hurry up!”

Hazel opens the door—at this point her mother might as well learn the whole truth.

Lillian Kuang barges in and enfolds Hazel in a hard embrace. “You have to be strong now, Hazel. Don’t panic.”

Their contact jolts Hazel more than anything else. Fifteen years in the United States of America had failed to turn her mother into a hugger. Whatever news she is bringing will be a calamity far worse than mere financial crime.

“What’s the matter?” Hazel croaks.

Her mother pulls back, but now her hands are braced on Hazel’s shoulders, forcing Hazel to look at her.

“Kit’s plane went down over the North Sea,” says she, her eyes full of pity. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”