Page Twelve

Otis put the book on the desk at three minutes to six. “Same one,” he said. “Thanks.”

Farah picked it up. The cover was right, the yellow title was right, and the library number on the back was right. But the corners were sharp, and the book opened like a book that nobody had opened before.

She turned to page twelve. Page twelve was clean.

There were four copies of that novel in the city, and Farah could identify hers. The copy that went out on the fourteenth had a blue ink stain on page twelve, next to the word “river.” She had seen it a hundred times.

“This isn't the book you took,” she said.

Otis looked at the door, then at her. “What?”

“The book you took had ink on it. This one is new.”

“It's the same book. Look at the cover.”

“The cover isn't evidence,” Farah said. “People focus on the cover. I look at page twelve.”

Otis was quiet for a moment. “How do you know it was page twelve?”

“Because I check every book that comes back.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “It got wet on the bus. I bought a new one on Tuesday. Is that a problem?”

Farah didn't ask him anything further. She wrote one line on the card and stamped it.

“It's a better copy than the old one,” she said. “There's no ink on page twelve.”