“What’re they worth?”

“This particular volume?” She thinks for a moment. “I’m not exactly sure. It’s not complete, but then again, almost none of Audubons are, since the original plates were sold individually to subscribers. Still, Connaughton’s got the most comprehensive collection this side of the New York Public Library.”

“How do you know so much about books? You really grew up in a used bookstore?”

“Yeah. It was my parents’, so I worked there growing up. We lived on Martha’s Vineyard. The store went out of business a few years back, but I spent my childhood in an old barn, sorting through boxes of old hardcovers. Occasionally I’d find a treasure.”

“The Vineyard, huh?”

She nods. “So I guess that means we both grew up on islands.”

“I’m pretty sure the president never vacationed on mine.” I’m walking toward the largest case, in the very center of the room. “Is this what I think it is?”

“That’s it.”

She’s joined me. We’re both standing at the case with our heads almost touching, looking down through the glass at the oversize illuminated pages of what can only be an original Gutenberg Bible.

Gatsby glances up and whispers: “Do you want to touch it?”

I stare at her. “Are you serious?”

“Here.” She pulls a pair of latex gloves from a box beneath the case and hands them to me. “Put these on.” Then she crosses the room to a console on the far wall and taps in a quick series of digits.

“What are you doing?”

“Overriding the alarm.”

I stare at her, aware of a rising swarm-of-bees sensation in my stomach, which is expanding to fill my chest. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Once or twice.” After walking back over to where I’m standing, she slides a key into the bottom of the case and I hear a single, muted click followed by the faintest sigh of released air. Raising the lid, she reaches down and lifts the Gutenberg from its display pedestal. “Sometimes when I’m feeling depressed, I come down here and hold it.”

“Is it heavy?”

“See for yourself,” she says, and hands it to me.

“Whoa.” The book fills my arms with surprising weight. “You know, it’s funny—when I woke up this morning I never thought I’d be holding a five-hundred-year-old Bible.”

“Connaughton acquired this particular one thirty years ago from a private collector in the U.K.,” she says.

“It’s beautiful.”

“The workmanship is exquisite.” Gatsby reaches down and runs her black fingertip along the two long columns of Latin script. “There are only forty-eight known Gutenbergs remaining in the world. All the originals were printed on high-quality linen paper imported from Caselle in Piedmont, northern Italy. It was one of the most important centers for papermaking in the fifteenth century. Every page had an authenticating watermark—either an ox head or a bunch of grapes.”

“Huh.” I stare at the pages for a long time. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“The watermarks.” Squinting, I hold the book up to the light, angling it this way and that, and turn the page. “This page doesn’t have either one.”

“You just need to look closer.” Gatsby leans over my shoulder until I can feel her hair tickling my neck. She doesn’t say anything for a second. Holding the Gutenberg between us, we turn the heavy pages together, the heavy, brittle paper rustling like autumn leaves. The room falls very still. When Gatsby speaks again, her voice is slow, almost a whisper.

“You’re right,” she says. “There’s no watermark.”

“So at least part of this edition is . . .”

She looks at me. Nods. “A forgery.”

“Whoa,” I say. “I can’t believe the school bought a fake.” Given the amount of money and prestige at stake, I’m impressed that somebody managed to pull off a bogus sale. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind talking a little shop with the counterfeit dealers. “Do you think Dr. Melville knows?”

“The whole thing might not be a forgery. Maybe there were just some missing pages and they got replaced with duplicates. Still, that means it’s not completely authentic.”

“Crazy.” I glance around the room, and now I’m wondering how many of these other priceless books might contain forged pages.

“Come on.” Gatsby reaches over to take the Gutenberg from my arms. “We should lock this back up again before somebody finds us down here.”

Five minutes later we’re back at the circulation desk, out of breath and trying to act casual while Gatsby takes a seat behind her computer and starts checking in books. “Stop looking at me like that,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Like we just did something illegal.”

“We didn’t,” I say. “I just haven’t had this much fun in a library since . . . well, ever.”

“Fun?” She picks up a book and slides it under the bar-code reader with trembling hands. “We just discovered that the crown jewel of Connaughton’s rare books collection is a forgery.”

“Well, anything that starts out with overriding an alarm system can’t be all bad.”

Gatsby just looks at me. “I still can’t believe it. It’s incredible.”

“I know.”

“It just never occurred to me that it could be a fake,” she says. “How could anyone do something like that?”

“Yeah, I know.” The truth is that people like me are always trying to figure out a way to fake something and pass it off as real—rare books, business contracts, deeds to nonexistent real estate. “People will surprise you, I guess.”

She glances at the phone on her desk. “We have to tell somebody.”

“Like who, the library police?” I shake my head. “I think maybe for right now we should keep this to ourselves until—”

“Hey, bro. Where you been?”

I stop midsentence and look around to see Brandt standing there with Andrea on his arm. For a second, he just glowers at me, and then his face breaks into his easy-like-Sunday-morning grin. Andrea is already smiling, bright-eyed and cute as a button above her scarf, her cheeks apple-red from the chill of the day. Brandt slams me on the shoulder with a bone-jarring thwack.

“How’s it going?” He leans down, voice dropping to a whisper. “Glad to run into you here. I wanted to talk to you about that opportunity you mentioned the other night. When can we go see this boss of yours?”

In the moment of silence that follows, I can feel Gatsby’s questioning eyes on me. “Actually”—I turn to flick a glance at Andrea, hoping my reaction comes off as looking nervous enough—“I’m not really sure if I can still—”

“Friday night is Homecoming,” Brandt says. “I won’t be running the casino that night. We’ll go together to talk to him then.”

“What about the dance?” Andrea asks.

“I’ll put in an appearance and be out of there by eight.” He looks at me again. “Make it happen, okay?” His voice tightens. “Don’t waste my time.” He turns to Andrea, who’s pretending to look at the books on the circulation desk. “You ready, babe?”

“I’m always ready . . . babe,” Andrea murmurs, and leans in to kiss him with enough visible tongue that Gatsby and I are basically forced to pretend we’re someplace far enough away that we can’t hear the sucking noises they’re making. We’re talking feeding time at the aquarium. I don’t even want to know what Andrea has to think about in order to sell it.

“I’ll see you around,” I say, nodding toward Gatsby, and walk away. The last thing I see is Andrea’s face smiling smugly at me as I head out the door.

Fourteen

IT’S STILL DARK OUTSIDE WHEN MY CELL PHONE GOES OFF ON Monday morning with a 702 area code—Las Vegas. It’s five a.m. here, which means that where Uncle Roy is calling from it’s not even early—it’s still late.

“Hey, Uncle Roy,” I croak, shaking off the cobwebs while I scan the floor for an unopened bottle of Mountain Dew to pour over my brain and wake it up.

“William!” Roy’s voice bellows, and I can hear the endless ringing of slot machines and the rabble of voices in the background. “Did I catch you sleeping?”