The rest of the morning went by quickly. I had a lot of calls to make and a few new volunteers to interview. One of them was a library science major named Kiana. She was smart and sweet, and while I happily offered her the position, I hoped she had better luck in her career path than I did. Her availability met the openings I had; where I assumed I needed several people, I only needed her.
At lunch, I spent some time flipping through listings for local Masons which came up blank again. I picked up the library phone and called information, asking for Mason Harris locally.
“Are you looking for a professional listing or personal?” The woman on the other end asked.
“Either,” I answered, wondering what business I missed in my search.
“I have one of each. Would you like me to connect you with a specific one?”
“Professional, please.”
The phone rang twice before someone picked up, “Harris Florals”
“Can I speak with Mason Harris?”
“Sorry, Ma’am, he’s retired.”
I called information again, cursing myself for not writing down the other number.
An old man answered expectantly, “Jim, is that you?”
“No, sir. My name is Claire. Do you have a son named Mason?”
I spoke sweetly, repeating myself when he barked, “Can’t hear you, girly,” I was unsurprised when he continued, “Ain’t got no kids, and don’t be calling here, I don’t have a call waiting and I need to talk to Jim.” I hung the phone up, shaking my head at myself for even thinking a landline could be the right person.
When Emma came back from her break, I set her up with a few tasks I would normally be responsible for and hit the computer hard. She raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t complain. I stayed at circulation, knowing if I went to my office I would wind up so engrossed in the task I wouldn’t do anything else I needed to.
I opened my favorite search engine and widened the parameters to all local Masons; the fact it was also a profession complicated matters further. Far too many existed to make any progress like this, so I narrowed them to any Mason between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Mercifully, that eliminated the tradespeople.
I answered the phone every time it rang as well as a few emails, but I kept flipping through the results, planning to keep my search going as long as I needed to. Emma brought me a turkey sandwich when she went out for lunch, and I shoved the last bite into my mouth when I, finally, found what I searched for. I almost missed him at first. The grainy flip phone quality was the opposite of what I expected, the same with the floppy-haired, sullen teen scowling at the camera.
Excitement rippled through me as I clicked the link to an old social media profile. Sure enough, Mason stared back at me in all of his angsty teenage glory. The name was Mason Mason. I rolled my eyes at his lack of helpfulness both then and now. The page was private except for his pictures.
I clicked through them, marveling at how gorgeous he was. One picture featured him on the lawn of a manicured mansion with spires climbing into the sky like a castle. The iron gate out front didn’t show a number or any identifying feature, but the building looked like other mansions I saw in the suburbs surrounding our city. Another was set in the cafeteria of a private school, with a lunch rivaling a five-star restaurant rather than a typical high school slop line. Most of the pictures featured him looking angry and a little stoned.
The phone rang and I let it go longer than I should have, “Circulation, how can I help you?” I spoke into the receiver as I stared into the green eyes I’d become obsessed with. I answered whatever question the person on the other end asked and forgot as soon as I hung up. My mouth fell open as I came across an image of teenage Mason, shirtless and cut, with defined abs and dirty blonde hair hanging in his eyes. I would guess he was eighteen, but his beauty wasn’t why I stopped.
The perfect blonde girl wrapped around him like a designer scarf caught my eye, with straight silvery blonde hair spilling down her back. Her legs enveloped him, and he gripped her thighs as they passionately kissed. I couldn’t stop staring. They were so pretty together. I needed a few moments to understand the twisting in my gut was jealousy. It was stupid to envy a girl he’dlovedyears ago yet here I was: twenty-six and jealous of an eighteen-year-old.
“You’re pathetic,” I muttered to myself.
“Oh my god! That’s what he looks like under the suit? Fuck me…” Emma’s voice behind me made me jump.
“Oh, Emma, um, what do you need?” I blushed furiously as I minimized the browser, but I wouldn’t dare close it after all the work I did to locate the info I had yet to read.
She cleared her throat, preoccupied with what she saw, “I wondered why you weren’t answering the phones when you told me you’d handle them, but clearly you’redistracted. Did you find what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet.” I sighed.
“You have him on the ropes, there’s nothing like a research expert to uncover someone’s dirty secrets,” she winked at me and answered the phone ringing in front of my dazed face. She was correct about one thing: librarians are excellent at research. I did a little more of the work the city paid me for, and Emma moved on to finish another task.
I pulled the browser back up and read the tag on the photo and the caption “When you’ve got the right girl...” I rolled my eyes as I went to the profile of Rebecca LaMontagne and stopped dead when I realized it was a memorial page.
People still left messages talking about how much they missed her, though they were much less frequent than they once were. Her mother commented regularly saying she still had hope she would come home. My heart ached for her, but after twelve years and an investigation, that didn’t seem likely.
Her father left comments talking about how much he missed her, though he didn’t harbor any hopes she would return, accepting her death. I wondered if Mason was involved in the search. Had they been together when she went missing? He clearly cared for her, and my heart ached for him as well.
Rebecca’s exclusive high school was proudly listed on the top of her page, along with her graduation year. She disappeared shortly after she graduated. I shuddered at the thought. I continued onto their website, shoving aside the borrowed sadness. I still had a mission. Rutherford Preparatory Academy’s website was filled with information I didn’t need, including the exorbitant cost of attending.