Between fueling the jet, taking off, landing, and driving to the tiny town of Morrison, it had been deemed quicker simply to drive from Blue Cove than to fly. Miss Parker tried not to show that she was impressed with the way Broots had seized upon the name of Clennam and searched Internet records until he found a single, tiny mention of a Jarod Clennam teaching English literature in place of a professor jailed for murder. She only wished she could get out of the car and push it to make it go faster. Taking the jet might have been slower in the long run, but it felt faster. Broots dozed in the front seat, and Sydney, beside her in the back, was still buried in his book, suddenly chuckling.

            “Syd, what are you giggling about?”

            “Dickens’ characters. This Mr. Pancks—he’s been working for a hypocrite of criminal proportions named Mr. Casby, doing his dirty work. Everyone believes Mr. Casby is good because he looks like a biblical Patriarch, with long, flowing hair and beard, and suddenly Mr. Pancks decides he’s had enough of it, and he exposes him in front of everyone. And he—” laughing “—he cuts his hair and beard and trims his hat and leaves him standing, ‘a bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed lumbering personage, not in the least impressive, not in the least venerable.’”

            “Good for him,” came Broots’ sleepy tones from the front. “Sometimes I wish—”

            “What do you wish?” Miss Parker snapped.

            “Oh, nothing, really. I don’t wish anything.” He closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

            Sydney continued reading. Miss Parker snapped at Sam to drive faster.