“I’ll be right over,” John said, and gave Bree an apologetic smile as he refastened his radio. “Have to take a rain check on that fish sandwich.”

“A baby?” Bree shook her head, not even trying to pretend she hadn’t been eavesdropping. That wasn’t the Little Bridge way. On an island with a population of nearly five thousand, everyone knew everyone else’s business. “Who leaves a baby in a library? Must be a tourist.”

John didn’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers by mentioning that in his experience, the incidents of child neglect in Little Bridge were spread evenly across the board, tourists and locals alike. So he only murmured a laconic, “Yep,” then laid down a five-dollar bill to cover the cost of the café con leche he’d consumed while perusing the menu.

“Oh, Sheriff.” Bree pushed the bill back toward him. “You know your money’s no good here.”

John smiled as he put on his wide-brimmed hat. “Put it in the donation jar for all those animals you like to save, then. And give my regards to Drew.”

Bree grinned happily at the mention of her boyfriend’s name and pocketed the bill. “I will. Thanks, Sheriff.”

The library was only one block away, but John drove, lights and siren blaring, because a lost baby was an emergency. So it was less than a minute before he was pulling up before the squat, office-style building that looked so out of place beside its statelier neighbors. Through some fluke in city planning, the town library had ended up in the middle of one of Little Bridge Island’s oldest and most expensive residential neighborhoods, each house built in the Victorian style, with wraparound, veranda-style front porches trimmed with gingerbread and dotted with comfortable-looking rattan sofas and chairs (about which his daughter, who’d spent her formative years on the mainland, had once asked, “Why doesn’t anyone steal them, Daddy?”).

The owners of these homes weren’t bothering to contain their excitement that the library—an architectural horror built in the 1960s—was scheduled for demolition in a few short months. Thanks to the generosity of a single, very wealthy donor, the eccentric but universally beloved widow Dorothy Tifton, the books were soon to be moved to the old high school, which was being renovated to accommodate them, and a center for Floridian history was to be constructed in the old building’s place.

As he pulled on the glass-and-metal doors and heard the familiar squeak of protest, then smelled the even more familiar scent of mildew, paper, and dust, John wondered if the librarians were as wistful about this move as he was. It’s true that the old library was small and cramped, and the new one was going to be a vast improvement.

But it sometimes seemed to John as if too many things were changing too fast . . . and not necessarily for the better.

“Hey, there,” he said to the extremely old woman sitting at the reception desk. John thought he recognized her as the librarian who’d worked in the building when he’d been a boy. But that woman had been so old then, she must surely be dead by now. “I’m Sheriff Hartwell. We got a call about a—”

The old woman nodded.

“I know, John,” she said in a creaky voice. “Although I suppose I should be calling you ‘Sheriff’ now.”

So it was her. She wasn’t dead! And somehow she’d remembered him after all these years. He must have made quite an impression as a boy . . . probably not a good one.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, politely doffing his hat. Phyllis Robinette, read the nametag pinned to her blouse. Of course! If it wasn’t for Phyllis Robinette taking him in hand that rainy day so many years ago, when he and his friends had staggered into the library, looking for something to do (or, more correctly, destroy), and showing him the biography section, he might never have discovered all those books on the people—sports heroes, military heroes, aviators, and lawmen—who later became his role models.

It was because of this woman that he’d discovered reading for pleasure, which had caused him to perform better in school, make good enough grades to get into college, major in criminal justice, and become what he was today . . . the county sheriff.

Should he tell her what a remarkable impression she’d made on him?

“I don’t suppose you’d be able to hurry this along?” the old woman asked, tartly. “The presence of so many persons carrying firearms is going to make quite a few of our patrons nervous.”

No, he was not going to tell her. At least, not today.

“I’m sure we’ll have this all straightened out shortly, ma’am.”

“Mm-hmm. The way you’ve straightened out those burglaries over by the old high school?”

He took the criticism in stride. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard it before. “Well, we do our best, ma’am. Those particular break-ins—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. “Right in there, John. You know the way.”

Dismissed, he turned and walked in the direction in which Mrs. Robinette was pointing, a fresh wave of nostalgia washing over him as he entered the room in which he’d spent so many hours as a boy. It looked—and smelled—exactly the same, down to the mural on the ceiling of friendly barnyard animals. (Why barnyard animals on an island in South Florida that was closer to Cuba than it was to the mainland, he’d always wondered. Why not sea creatures? Perhaps because so many children growing up on Little Bridge knew how to avoid jellyfish stings but not that milk came from cows.)

The EMTs were already there. John was pleased to see it was a particularly competent team, who worked well together and rarely gave his deputies any guff.

Bearded, tattooed Max was kneeling beside an attractive young woman whom John had never seen before—unusual, since, aside from tourists, he was acquainted at least by sight with nearly everyone on the island. The young woman was holding a baby in her lap. Max had a stethoscope pressed to the baby’s chest.

“Good, strong heartbeat,” Max said after a moment.

“Thank God,” the young woman said. The people gathered around her—men and women, boys and girls, many of them holding heavily decorated gingerbread men, for some reason—all echoed the sentiment, letting out a collective sigh of relief.

“Wade,” John said quietly, since it was a library and there was a baby and Max seemed to have the scene under control. The baby wasn’t even crying, but John had enough experience with babies not to take that as a positive sign. Wade noticed him and quickly came over.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he whispered. “Can you believe this?”

“Not sure,” John said. “What is this, exactly?”

“Baby, abandoned. New librarian found her,” Wade said, nodding in the direction of the attractive young woman. “Molly, er, Montgomery, I think her name is? Anyway, somebody stuck the baby in a box and left her in a toilet stall in the girls’ room.”

“Hmmm.” John narrowed his eyes. There was a box advertising industrial-sized trash bags sitting on a tiny, child-sized table a few feet away. “That box there?”

“Yeah. Whoever did it wrapped her up in a towel, but she was cold anyway on account of the AC in here. Librarian did the right thing by picking her up and trying to keep her warm till we got here. We’re gonna get her over to the hospital now, but she seems to be doing okay, considering.”

John nodded. “Good. How old do you think she is?”

“Newborn. Hours. No more than a day, for sure.”

John nodded again. He’d said, “Good,” but he didn’t actually think any of this was good. Bad enough to abandon a baby, but to abandon one in a box meant for trash bags, and in a library? Especially when the fire station, a state-appointed safe haven for newborns under a week old, was just down the street.

He counted a dozen people in the room, not including himself and the EMTs. Of that, six appeared to be women of child-bearing age. It was doubtful from their demeanor that any of them was the mother, but he’d need to question them all.

This included the librarian. She was handing Max the baby, whom the EMT began to address in gibberish. John knew that Max had two dogs at home that he adored, so speaking in gibberish to any creature smaller than himself wasn’t unusual for him.

Still, the librarian apparently didn’t know this. She looked slightly concerned as she watched Max bundle up the baby in an emergency thermal blanket from the ambulance. In her early to mid thirties, Molly Montgomery was neatly dressed in black slacks and a floral top, her dark hair cut in what John’s fashion-conscious daughter always referred to as a bob. The librarian had a slim figure, not one of a female who’d given birth recently, and it would be odd—though not unheard of—for someone who’d just delivered a baby to report it as if she’d “found” it.

But neither of those things was enough for John to rule her out as the mother. He was going to have to question her. He was going to have to question her most closely of all.

“Marg,” he said into the handset on his shoulder. “I’m gonna need some help over here at the library.” He glanced around at the crowd, noting that their gazes were still fixed on the baby. People sure did go nuts over babies. “A lot of it.”