Dancing with a Stranger

Chapter Nine

I walk up to my desk to find Ian standing there, tapping his fingers impatiently. "Lacey, you're late," he says with stern disapproval.

"Technically, I'm on time, Ian," I clarify, shooting him a wink as I maneuver past him to set my coffee down and turn on my computer.

Unable to maintain the façade, he starts laughing. "This is true; however, my favourite librarian is always thirty minutes early. So, this is, in fact, late for you." He winks back at me and then lowers his tall, built frame to lean on my desk, propping himself up with his elbows.

"You're not wrong, though," I chuckle, "but how would you even know that when you're never here when I get in?"

His face breaks into a dazzling smile, his pearly whites shining in contrast against his flawless dark skin. "It's called technology and a little app that monitors the alarm system." His sarcastic statement hits home and I face-palm, causing him to release a hearty laugh that fills the silence of the library. "Geez, Lacey, you're really off your game today."

"And you're too loud for the library," I throw back before falling victim to a laughing spell of my own. "Sorry, Ian," I say, regaining composure, "life just seems a little unsettled these days."

"No apologies needed," he reassures. "Anything you want to talk about?"

In this moment I remember how grateful I am to have a boss like Ian. He is great at his job and he is also kind and caring. As much as I would love to divulge the soap opera that has become my life, I restrain myself; not so much because I do not want him to know, more so because I do not trust myself to not break down in the middle of this library.

"You know you can always tell me anything," he mentions softly. "I may be your boss, but I'm also a great listener and I consider you a friend."

I start to feel the tears well up at Ian's softness and force myself to push them back. I refuse to become a hot mess in front of him! "I'm good, Ian, honest," I force a smile in an effort to convince him.

A look of disbelief flashes across his eyes but he, in turn, fakes acceptance of my boldface lie. "If you say so," he says. "You know, for a librarian, you really are like a closed book." I groan loudly at his lame-ass pun while he laughs and heads to his office. "You know where to find me if you need me," he calls out from across the room.

I take a few moments to breathe and center myself for the day ahead. I log into my computer and check my schedule for any new meetings or appointments. Thankfully, there is nothing scheduled. It is Wednesday, and the library tends to be fairly quiet on Wednesdays.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I open a document I have been working on for the past few months. Our library was approached by a law enforcement agency to help with gathering research on unsolved murder cases. My job is to look through various newspaper archives around the time of the different cases and pull out anything that might seem relevant. It is tedious but I am passionate about it as my parents own murders have yet to be solved. The little girl in me keeps hoping that by participating in this research, somehow that will translate into justice for my parents.

I start scrolling through local newspapers for an unsolved case from 1983 but find my mind constantly wandering back to Nikolai. Try as I might to resist the urge to search his name online, I eventually cave. Not like I'm actually getting work done anyway. I open an incognito browser and type his name into the search engine. Several results pop up automatically and I begin to go through them one by one.

Nothing shocking or newsworthy appears; most sites talk about his various business ventures in friendly and hostile takeovers and his philanthropic work with charities, namely focusing on poverty, animals and access to education for children. One online encyclopedia page contains little biographical information about him aside from his age, place of birth and education and he does not appear to have any social media, outside of a professional networking account.