I’m sitting at a table in the back of the store, doodling a lizard climbing the side of the Eiffel Tower on the inside of a pamphlet, when I glance up and see a familiar face passing through the front door. Jack St. Claire strides into the small, musty shop as if he owns the place. He doesn’t see me at first as he marches straight to the front desk. My jaw drops, and heat floods my cheeks as I tear my feet down from the table and nearly tumble over in my chair, knocking a stack of books to the floor in my clumsy attempt to be discreet.
