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morning.
    The detective’s eyebrows had gone up when I’d told him about the locked doors as security, and I’d felt compelled to explain that a full-fledged security system had been part of the renovation plan, but increased construction costs had made cuts necessary.
    If the library ever received the large bequest we’d been promised in the will of the late Stan Larabee, a security system would be installed lickety-split, but the will was being contested by numerous family members and it was a toss-up if we’d ever receive anything.
    â€œNo fainting, then?” Rafe asked.
    â€œYou sound disappointed,” I said. “Did you bet anyone on it?” Rafe and I had a longstanding practice of making five-dollar bets on everything from which snowflake would make it to the ground first to what year Thomas Jefferson was born.
    â€œWell, it would make a better story,” he said. “You fainting, your knight in shining armor rushing to the rescue, dampening your brow with love-struck kisses, you blinking to life and—”
    Kristen made a rude noise. “Have you been watching the Hallmark channel again?”
    â€œHey, no making fun of Jane Seymour. She’s hot.”
    This was undeniably true. And now that I was being reassured that I had good friends who cared about me—even if they were moving on to a discussion of how all actors on the CW network looked alike—I was indeed feeling okay. Or at least a lot better than I had been.
    â€œThanks for calling, you two,” I said into the middle of a mild argument regarding a plot point of
Arrow
. “But I need to get going.”
    â€œYou sure you’re okay?” Kristen asked.
    â€œShe’s fine,” Rafe said, and somehow his saying so made me feel stronger. Of course, that could have been because I wanted to prove him so very wrong about the fainting thing. He could be such a putz.
    â€œDo you think . . .” Kristen paused.
    â€œLet the woman go,” Rafe said. “You heard her: She has things to do. Places to go. People to see. All sorts of—”
    â€œDo I think what?” I interrupted. Rafe would go on like that for hours otherwise.
    â€œThat having the library be the place where someone was murdered will be a problem?”
    â€œNot really. Ash figures they’ll be done soon.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant,” Kristen said. “What if the murder hurts the library’s reputation? What if people don’t want to come to a place where someone was killed? I mean, this is safe little Chilson, where nothing bad ever happens, but now . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    â€œIt’ll be fine,” Rafe said, but this time his assurance didn’t instill me with confidence. Because Kristen was right, and I was suddenly frightened for my library.
    There was a quiet cough. Detective Inwood was standing just outside my office doorway. “Ms. Hamilton? I have questions about library procedures.”
    I nodded. “It’ll be fine,” I told my friends, then hung up, hoping it was true.
    *   *   *
    It didn’t take long to answer the detective’s questions, and soon after that, he told me I was free to open the building.
    â€œThere’s limited value,” he said, “to a deep crime-scene investigation in such a public space.”
    I nodded. Evidence that Suspect A had been in the library wouldn’t prove anything unless Suspect A tried to claim that he (or she) had never been in the place, and what was the point of saying you’d never been in a public building?
    â€œYou have a bit of a mess over there.” Inwood gestured toward the nonfiction section. “If your maintenance staff is like most, they won’t have any idea how to clean it up.”
    â€œClean what up?”
    â€œFingerprint powder. It’s extremely fine-grained,” he said. “I’d vacuum as much as