Page 107 of The Rust in Her Hair

She asks about my pack, even though she thinks they're my roommates. And she tells me about her grandson's baseball games. But today she won't even look at me.

Something is definitely wrong.

Taking a deep breath, I carefully search for my bond with Nico, and smooth it shut on my end. I don’t want him feeling my worry from across the city. He's on a job site with a hundred things already on his plate, and there's nothing he can do from there but worry. I'll tell him everything tonight, face to face.

I push my glasses up my nose, and I go in.

Director Ellsworth's office is all dark wood and polished brass with floor-to-ceiling shelves along two walls. There’s a wide window behind the desk looking out over the quad. He's on his feet when I come in, which he almost never is.

"Dr. Cruz." He rounds the desk, hand already out. "Thank you for coming up so quickly."

Winston is a tall, narrow alpha somewhere in his sixties, with silver hair combed back off a long face. He always looks like he's just come from somewhere more important, and today is no exception.

"Of course." I shake it. His grip is firmer than usual. "Marguerite made it sound urgent."

"Sit, sit." He gestures at the chairs in front of his desk, and that's when I notice we're not alone.

There's an alpha standing by the shelves near the window.

He doesn't fit the room.

His navy blue suit looks a little too big for him, sitting wide along his shoulders. He's got a to-go coffee cup in one hand, the paper kind, and I recognize the logo. It's from the diner three blocks over, the one with the cracked vinyl booths.

Winston clears his throat. "Owen, this is Marcus Doyle. He's a private investigator."

"Oh?" I frown, not sure what’s going on.

Please don’t be about Lyra. Please don’t be about Lyra. Please don’t be about Lyra.

Marcus crosses the room, offering his hand. He's got a plain, forgettable face and eyes that don't miss anything.

"Dr. Owen Cruz," Ellsworth says. "Our archivist for special collections."

"Dr. Cruz." Doyle's handshake is brief and dry. "I appreciate your time."

"Sure." I make myself smile, hoping I don’t sound too nervous. "What's this about?"

Doyle lets go of my hand and studies my face for a second before he answers. "It's about Lyra Van Houten."

Ice tips in my veins and my whole body locks up for half a second. And the worst part is, I know Doyle sees it too, because his eyes sharpen on me the exact moment it lands. But there's nothing I can do to take it back. So I do the only thing I can think of. I try to pass my reaction off as worry, and lean into it.

"Lyra?" I look between the two of them. "Is she okay?"

Doyle doesn't answer right away. He just stares.

I have never been a good liar. Even Mack can read me across a room.

"I’m afraid Ms. Van Houten has gone missing," Mr. Doyle says finally.

I press a hand flat over my heart, letting my face fall.

"Missing?" My voice cracks, and for once I don't have to fake it, because the word out of his mouth makes it real in a way it hasn't been. Somewhere out there, people who love Lyra think she’s lost…even if those people are horrible. "Oh, god," I gasp. "How long has she been missing?"

Doyle doesn't answer that either. He tilts his head slightly, still reading me. "I'm told the two of you are friends," he says, completely ignoring my question.

I make myself breathe.

"I guess you could say that." I keep my voice careful, measured. "We talk when she comes into the library. She loves the collections." I glance at Winston. "She always has lots of questions, and I'm happy to answer them." I lift a shoulder, going for casual. "But it's not like we go get coffee or anything. She's a patron. A friendly one."