Page 78 of The Librarians

Through a connecting door she enters the bedroom. The space is large but spare. Instead of books, the faint illumination of her flashlight reveals a whole shelf of vinyl records.

She has yet to get a true sense of Conrad in this house. According to Ryan, he inherited most of the books that form the backbone of the house’s character. The vinyls probably belonged to Romy Lonstein, once upon a time—there were piles and piles of them in the background of some of her social media posts.

What belongs to him, then, in this entire place? The ship in a bottle? The jar of tickets?

On his nightstand she finds—what else?—a stack of books. A volume of poetry by Cavafy, another by Margaret Atwood, a paperback copy ofThe Fifth Seasonin French, and what looks to be a wuxia epic in complex Chinese.

She picks up the copy ofLa cinquième saisonand gently thumbs the edges. There is something tucked in the pages, acting as a bookmark—a postcard.

Of Madeira. Her fingers tighten.

She sits down on the edge of the bed and presses on her flashlight’s controls for stronger light. The front of the postcard is composed of smaller images: green peaks and gorges, glistening waterfalls, hikers walking alongside narrow, picturesque irrigation channels.

The corners of the postcard are slightly bent. There is a dent along the left side, too. Otherwise the cardstock is still smooth and shiny. She turns it over. To her surprise, there is writing on the back, the handwriting sharp and handsome but not easy to read.

She peers closer.

A click. A cold metallic barrel presses into her temple.

“Don’t move,” says a man.

Says Conrad.

Chapter Twenty-two

The basketball game, naturally, fails to hold Jonathan’s attention—and would have failed even if Hazel weren’t upstairs breaking the law.

For all intents and purposes, he and Ryan are alone, for the first time in twenty years. Jonathan is grateful for the TV, for the sonic blast and frenetic motion of the match in progress. He is also grateful for the beer in his hand, which gives him something to hold and something to do.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” says Ryan and leaps up.

He seems to have lost none of his agility. Jonathan can easily overlay onto him the image he still carries from those varsity b-ball games—yellow flooring, burnt orange bleachers, a lithe young Ryan levitating for a jump shot.

Ryan comes back with a plate of food. “Ever had karaage? Japanese fried chicken?”

With an H Mart not far from where he lives, Jonathan’s hadKoreanfried chicken. But the karaage is new to him, and its crispy, salty deliciousness penetrates even his current level of inner distraction. “Wow. Did you make this?”

“It’s frozen food. My mom bought two boxes at the Japanese store and gave me one.” Ryan grins. “For me to put a little Asian gloss on my American ass.”

Jonathan can also overlay this smile on his mental recollection of high school Ryan. The same charm, the same mischief.

But how does he come across to Ryan? Has he changed enough in thepast twenty years that Ryancannotreconcile the current him with his memories? God, he hopes so.

The final whistle blows on the second quarter.

Ryan tsks. “It’s been three weeks since the season started and everybody still looks rusty.”

“Too much bunching,” concurs Jonathan. “Nobody’s rotating properly.”

He did see a bit of the play and it was not inspiring.

Ryan shakes his head. He takes out his phone, frowns, puts it back into his pocket, and turns off the TV.

Jonathan holds his breath. Is Ryan about to evict him?

But Ryan only asks, “Do you want some ice cream?”

“Ah, thanks but no. My doctor isn’t entirely satisfied with my lipids panel and I already had fried chicken.”