If she asked him to stop, she knew he would. But she didn’t.
“Tell me,” Max said. “Tell me that I’m wrong.”
She didn’t tell him he was wrong, because their conversation ended. They were no longer alone. Francis walked into the reference area. There was no way to know if he had heard them.
“A fine morning for the library, wouldn’t you say?” Francis said. “The reference desk calls have been coming to my desk.” He held a pile of messages.
Did he look smug? Did he look suspicious? He just looked like Francis.
“Thank you for answering them,” Liesl said.
“Two were really reference questions,” Francis said.
“What a treat,” Liesl said.
“One was researching armorial bindings.”
“How are the donor calls?” Max asked.
“Plentiful,” Francis said. “Bit surprising, isn’t it, how many people still read the morning paper? Makes you think those doom-and-gloom stories about the death of print are overstated.”
“I’ll take the messages,” Liesl said.
“I suppose I should say I told you so,” Francis said. “Liesl, I warned you against calling the police, didn’t I?”
“Indeed you did.”
“Nothing to do about it now. The story named a suspect, which is helpful to us, I’d say.”
“I disagree,” Liesl said. “How is it helpful that the donors and everyone else think Miriam is a suspect in the theft?”
“Looks better than us twiddling our thumbs,” Francis said.
“It’s a woman’s reputation,” Liesl said. “I’d prefer to look bad.”
“The police suspect her,” Francis said. “That’s the simple truth.”
“We should know better.”
“Why are you all of a sudden so adamant?”
“Maybe I’m in receipt of new information. Maybe I’m thinking straight.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Francis said. “It’s a stressful day, Liesl. Here are the messages. Let me know if I can help.”
A moment later, after Francis had made a statement with his exit, spinning on a heel as he delivered his last statement, Max and Liesl found themselves locking eyes. They were again alone; the graduate student’s pencil was sharp. He was hunched over a desk behind a glass door, tip of this tongue sticking through his lips in concentration.
Max adjusted his already-perfect tie and watched Liesl in silence as the memory of Francis receded from the space. When she said nothing, Max raised his eyebrows at her; she was standing with her arms crossed.
“So you believe me then?” Max said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to, Liesl. You behaved like it.”
“No,” she said, looking off in the direction where Francis had disappeared. “I spoke in defense of Miriam.”
“Right, Liesl. But if Miriam isn’t the thief, then someone else is.”
“Someone. Not Francis.”
Max gave her a steady look, then spun the chair around and faced the computer screen. After a few moments of silence, he gave a slight shake of the head.
“Right,” he said. “You two are close, so this is hard for you.”
Liesl refused to accept that. She changed direction.
“You’ve offered no evidence.”
“Haven’t I?”
“He was against the police, Max. That’s all.”
Liesl was surprised that Max seemed so fixed on the idea of Francis as the culprit. The men had a long relationship, no history of coldness between them that she knew.
“It might be all,” Max said. “Or it might be the first piece of something bigger.”
Max waved a hand as to if signal the conversation was over, but Liesl felt determined to continue. She pulled a chair over directly next to Max and sat herself in it. Refused to accept his back to her any longer. This time she took the accusing tone.
“You sound paranoid,” Liesl said. “Francis is your colleague.”
“I know,” he said. This time he was the one who glanced over to make sure Francis was not returning. “But we won’t find who did it without asking questions.”
“Christopher would know,” Liesl said, thinking of the confident Christopher holding court in his office, the one who didn’t exist anymore, not the near-corpse in the ICU. “I’m sure he would just know.”
“He’s as good with people as he is with books,” Max said.