Chapter 11: The Left Corner

Clara's whole body went cold.

The aisle was quiet. Somewhere above them a pipe knocked.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

"Yes, you do."

"I read in lots of places."

"The third carrel from the window." His voice stayed gentle.

"The lamp there has a loose bulb, and it flickers if you lean on the desk."

"You always sit with your left elbow on the shelf, so it stays on."

She stared at him.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I was in the stacks at midnight, once a month, for three years," Miles said.

"I sat at the far end, behind the periodicals, and watched you read."

Her ears roared.

"No."

"Clara."

"You couldn't have seen."

"I couldn't see the page. I could see you. You read it, and read it again, and put it back in the envelope."

He swallowed.

"Then you took out a little roll of tape and pressed it on the corner."

The floor seemed to tilt.

"The left corner," he said. "Every time."

She put a hand on the cart to steady herself.

For three years she had been careful.

She had sealed every envelope with a strip of tape so thin it looked like a flaw in the paper.

She had believed it was her one private thing.

"You knew," she said.

"Yes."

"The whole time?"

"Since the first month."

"You let me think..." Her voice shook. "You let me sit in that carrel and think I was hiding."