Or taken any more pictures I wasn’t aware of.As I came through the front door, Mandy Sterling, the clerk who worked at the circulation desk greeted me.Mandy had been the person who had accepted my prison ID and copy of the lease on my apartment as adequate when I’d first applied for a library card. And she hadn’t acted like there was anything unusual about someone having a prison ID. I would be eternally grateful to her for that.No one was at the desk to check out anything, and Mandy stood, a book in her hand, staring out the window and frowning. I went up to say hello. She wore a plain pullover sweater and a cardigan of the sort my former foster mother would have called “a twin set.” Only Mandy’s looked soft and luxurious, like it was made of cashmere. Diamonds mounted in platinum sparkled at her earlobes and a heavy matching pendant hung from her neck. Or maybe, for all I could tell, they were cubic zirconium in steel. On her, though, probably not.Her parents had died, I remembered, and she was an only child, so she had inherited a house and lots of other nice things.
