Chapter 10

By morning the rain had stopped, and the sun washed High Street bright.

Rowan didn't mention the cut-out note. She opened up, brewed tea, and organized old books behind the counter like nothing had happened. Only she knew she'd moved the blue book—to a locked drawer under the counter, the key on a cord around her neck, against her skin.

At ten, Toby pushed in, holding a stack of fresh photocopies, the look on his face that said I think I found something.

"Rowan." He kept his voice low. "That scholarship account you asked about—I followed Oak Bay Piano Gallery back. You know what?"

"What?"

"That piano gallery did issue an invoice for five thousand dollars, on May 30, 2003." Toby laid the paper on the counter. "But the payer on the invoice wasn't the Hollow Creek Community Music Fund. It wasn't the school. It was a name—a person's name." He paused. "G. Hale."

Rowan's teacup stopped halfway to her mouth.

G. Hale. Gilbert Hale.

Mr. Hale himself had bought a piano for five thousand dollars? The scholarship money that should have gone to Sarah—on paper it had been returned. But here was a five-thousand-dollar piano invoice in Mr. Hale's own name.

"But." Toby scratched his head. "I checked. There's no piano at Mr. Hale's house now. The old upright he had was bought when he was young, still in his living room. So where's this new five-thousand-dollar piano on the invoice?"

Rowan set the cup down and turned the invoice photocopy over and over.

A five-thousand-dollar piano invoice in Mr. Hale's name. The scholarship money, on paper, returned.

A possibility moved through her, cold on her back:

Maybe the money had never been returned. Maybe someone had taken five thousand dollars out of the scholarship account and routed it through a piano invoice—turned it into clean money. And the invoice had Mr. Hale's name on it.

But there was no such piano at Mr. Hale's house.

The piano had never existed. It was just money, passing through the books of an out-of-town gallery that opened for two years and closed. And then, cleanly, it was gone.

"Toby," she said, "can you check what happened to Oak Bay Piano Gallery after?"

"Already did." Toby pushed his glasses up. "Closed in 2004. Out-of-town owner, opened two years, closed, never came back to Hollow Creek."

Rowan held the invoice photocopy and said nothing.

An out-of-town piano gallery that opened two years and closed. A five-thousand-dollar invoice in Mr. Hale's name. A blue book hidden in sheet music, ending with it wasn't your fault, it was mine.

She thought of the photograph. Autumn 2002, the choir. Young Leonard Pritchard at the edge of the group, hands behind his back, head slightly bowed—the man who wasn't used to being in pictures.

She thought of Ruth's line: the books were clean because the books were clean.

"Toby." She looked up. "One more thing. Look into Pritchard's Hardware—Leonard Pritchard. Around 2003 to 2004, was there anything… off about his business?"

"Rowan." Toby hesitated. "You're looking into Mr. Pritchard? Everybody knows him. He's the chamber president. The respectable one."

"I know," she said. "That's exactly why."

Toby didn't ask more. He gathered the papers, stuffed them in his backpack, and paused at the door. "Rowan, if you really think something's wrong with Mr. Hale's case—be careful. You're doing this alone."

"I know."

Toby left. Rowan stood behind the counter, folded the invoice photocopy, and put it in the same pocket as last night's cut-out note.

The shop door chimed. Someone walked in. Rowan looked up and her heart skipped.

Leonard Pritchard stood in her doorway. He was wearing a pressed dark blue shirt, carrying a paper bag, with that warm smile that made everybody in town feel welcome. Morning light spilled in from outside, lighting up High Street behind him. He stood there like nothing more than a respectable neighbor dropping by.

"Rowan," he said. "I heard Mr. Hale's sheet music came to you. I wanted to come by—he was an old friend of mine. I thought I'd take the music home, keep it for him."

He smiled respectably. Only Rowan knew that the invoice photocopy in her pocket, and the blue book in the locked drawer, were warm against her.

"Mr. Pritchard." She kept her voice steady. "The sheet music is already cataloged into the collection. The process isn't finished. Once I have the inventory, I'll bring it to you myself. No need for you to make the trip."

Leonard nodded, smiling. "No trouble. I was passing by. I wanted something of his to keep."

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll keep it safe for him."

She put extra weight on keep it safe. Leonard's smile flickered for a moment, then smoothed out. "That's very kind." He walked to the door, then turned. "Rowan, if the organizing gets heavy, you can always call me."

The door closed behind him, shutting out the morning light. Rowan stood there, her palms a little damp. She realized she'd just used the kind of language Ruth had talked about—clean language. Polite, respectable, impossible to fault, and promising nothing.

But she also knew: Leonard Pritchard's trip today was probably to confirm one thing. Was the box still in her hands, or had someone already looked through it?

She reached up and touched the key cord around her neck, through her shirt.

The key was there. The blue book was there. And so was she.

After Leonard left, Rowan stood behind the counter for a long time.

She didn't open the locked drawer right away. She made a cup of tea, sat back against the bar, let the tea settle, then took the key off her neck, unlocked the drawer, and took out the blue book.

She turned to the last page and read the line again: five thousand dollars, it wasn't your fault, it was mine. She turned back to the first page and looked at the five scribbled-out notes.

Then she put the book back, locked the drawer, and put the key against her skin.

She didn't know what Leonard had come to confirm. But she'd seen: when he walked in, his eyes swept the shop first—not at the books, but at the spot where the box of sheet music had been.

A man coming to "keep something of an old friend's" wouldn't care that much where the box was.

She thought of his line on the way out—you can always call me. It sounded polite. But on reflection, it was a quiet test. He wanted to know whether, and when, the sheet music might end up somewhere he could get it.

She went through the inventory again. Invoice, newspaper, blue book, manuscript—nothing missing. She'd shown him nothing.

Mr. Pritchard, she said to herself. You came at the right time.

She set down her teacup. Leonard Pritchard knew the sheet music was in her hands. And he'd already guessed that Mr. Hale hadn't just donated the box to a bookshop.

Starting today, he'd be watching her.

And she'd be watching him.

Outside, the morning light made High Street bright. Rowan stood behind the counter, looking at the closed glass door, and the voice in her head said softly:

Mr. Hale. You handed this box to me.

Don't worry. I won't let it fall into the wrong hands.