‘Thank you, Millie. I need to provide some lunch for Abigail. When she’s done reading this book, I’ll take her out to the truck and let her eat, then I’ll be back in to get the list.’
She hesitated. ‘I have some fruit in my desk drawer. I always bring extra. Would you like an orange or an apple for you and Abigail?’
The memory of oranges tickled his taste buds, but he hated to take her food. ‘It’s fine. Thank you for offering.’
She gave him a look that he remembered from his grandmother, the one that said I know what you’re really thinking. ‘Come with me, Amos.’
Obediently he followed her, inhaling the delicious scent of oranges that filled the air the moment she opened the drawer. She put two oranges and two apples in his hands. ‘Enjoy them.’
He brought the fruit to his nose and inhaled again, stunned when tears burned his eyes. He cleared his throat roughly. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . it’s been a while. Apples we could get. Sometimes we could grow them, but oranges . . . I haven’t even smelled one in thirty years.’
Millie swallowed hard. ‘I wish I’d brought more. If you’ll come back tomorrow, I will.’
‘You are very kind. Thank you.’ He put the fruit in his pockets. ‘I’ll go get Abigail. I hope I can entice her from the books with an orange.’
Millie laughed, but it was shaky. ‘She loves books. This is the perfect place for her to be.’
But where is the perfect place for me? Amos wondered.
Soberly, he crossed the library to where Abigail sat in a small chair, two smaller children at her feet, completely engrossed in the story she was reading aloud. She looked up at him, disappointment clouding her eyes. ‘Do we need to go, Papa?’
‘Just for a little while. We need to have some lunch.’
‘I am hungry,’ she admitted, then looked down at the smaller children. ‘If you’re here when I’m finished with my lunch, we can read some more.’
The mother of the children met Amos’s eyes, her lips curving into a smile. ‘Your daughter is a very good reader. My twins never sit still long enough for me to read to them. Girls, can you thank Abigail for reading to you?’
‘Thank you,’ the twins chorused.
Abigail smiled sweetly. ‘You are welcome.’ She skipped to a cart and set the book atop a pile. ‘That’s where Miss Millie said to put the books I’m finished with. I’m ready, Papa.’
He held out his hand, his heart settling when she took it without hesitation. It didn’t matter what he did or where his place would be. As long as his daughter was safe and smiled at him, it would be all right. It would be perfect.
They turned for the door as it opened, two women entering. They were clearly related. Mother and daughter, probably. Both had blond hair and the same brown eyes. The older woman’s hair was streaked with silver, but her step was energetic.
She and the younger woman walked straight to the desk. He wasn’t intending to eavesdrop, but he heard the older woman say his name and he froze in his tracks.
Millie cast him an anxious glance. ‘Amos? These ladies want to talk to you.’
The younger woman smiled, the kind of smile that was supposed to calm frayed nerves. ‘We mean no harm. Did you email Jeff Bunker, sir?’
Amos stiffened. Reading his mood, Abigail stepped closer to his side, clutching his hand harder.
‘Papa?’ she whispered, and in that moment she was a scared seven-year-old again, the confident reader of Ramona the Pest gone like mist in the sunshine.
‘I did.’ Amos wanted to say more but had no idea which words would be the right ones.
The older woman stepped forward. ‘Are you Amos Terrill?’ she asked, her accent sounding vaguely familiar. Russian, maybe?
He pulled Abigail closer, so that she stood partially behind him. ‘I am.’
The older woman smiled, the same smile that still brightened her daughter’s face. ‘My name is Irina Sokolov. This is my daughter Sasha.’ She half bent, tilting her head toward Abigail. ‘And who is this pretty girl?’
Abigail was trembling and Amos was tempted to swing her into his arms and bolt for the door, but then the woman’s name sank in. ‘Sokolov, you said?’ He’d read that name an hour before. It was in the article about Ephraim’s attempted abduction of Mercy from the airport. The attempt had been thwarted by an off-duty detective. Sokolov had been his name, too.
Straightening, the woman nodded. ‘Irina Sokolov,’ she repeated.
‘Detective Raphael Sokolov. He is your son?’ he pressed.
Her smile bloomed wider. ‘He is. Do you know him?’
‘I read about him. On the computer.’ Amos gestured weakly to the computer table with the stack of books Millie had brought him to read. ‘He rescued Mercy Callahan.’
Irina and her daughter shared a glance. ‘He did,’ Sasha said. ‘I was there. It was . . . awful. Do you know Jeff Bunker?’
‘I read his name as well. On the computer,’ he added again. ‘We thought he might be able to get a message to Mercy.’
Abigail tugged at his hand. ‘Papa? Is it the same Mercy as in the picture?’
He looked down into her puzzled face. ‘I hope so.’
‘But Mercy died. Like my mama. You said so. You said.’
Oh. How was he going to explain this? ‘I know I said so, because I thought so. But she might not have.’ He looked to the Sokolov women. ‘Did she? Is Mercy still alive?’
Please, God. Please let her say yes.
Irina’s smile was radiant. ‘Alive and well,’ she said. ‘I think we should talk.’
‘I think that would be a good idea. I was about to take Abigail outside for some lunch. Perhaps you can sit with us?’
‘There’s a picnic table in the courtyard,’ Millie offered. ‘Around the back of the building.’
‘Thank you, Millie,’ Amos said. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
She smiled at him, tears in her eyes again. ‘I’m a sucker for a happy ending, Amos.’
He smiled back, his chest now tight with anticipation. These women knew Mercy. His Mercy. Who was not dead. Light-headed with relief, he followed the Sokolovs out of the library, Abigail clinging to his hand even harder.
When they were in the sunshine, the Sokolovs went ahead to the picnic table and Amos stopped, crouching until he was eye to eye with his child. ‘You know how we hid in the woods last night?’
She nodded. ‘I was scared, Papa.’