“Sydney, why are you always reading all of a sudden?”

            Sydney looked up from his fat book. “I have been reading this book since Wednesday, Miss Parker. That is two days and does not constitute always.”

            “You’ve gotten through that much in two days?” Broots said, impressed. “You read fast.”

            “What is it this time? Psychotherapy For Geniuses?”

            “Nothing so esoteric,” Sydney chuckled. “Dickens.”

            “Dickens?” she echoed. “I’ve never known you to read fiction, Syd.”

            “It’s good to get back to the classics every now and then. Clear your mind of everyday concerns and get into a good story. Though this—” he held up the book “—has done quite the opposite. The more I read it, the more everyday concerns crowd around me. I think Dickens intended it that way.”

            “Sydney, does this have anything to do with Jarod?”

            “Doesn’t everything? Do we ever do anything that doesn’t have to do with Jarod?”

            “You certainly don’t. And me—” She sighed. “I guess I don’t either. He even pursues me home.”

            “Jarod pursues you? That’s funny,” Broots chuckled, then withered under her glare.

            “So what is it, Syd? Jarod’s trail has gone cold, unless he told you to read Dickens.”

            “He didn’t. It was that wrong number, someone looking for a Mrs. Clennam. The name was familiar, and I found it in this book.”

            Broots seemed to be about to say something, but he caught Sydney’s eye and closed his mouth.

            “I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, Parker, but this book is all about Jarod.”

            She took it, losing his place. “Little Dorrit? What’s a little dorrit?”

            “It’s a person, a certain child whose father is in debtor’s prison. Because the children have nowhere else to live, they live in the prison with him. Little Dorrit has spent her entire life in prison, taking care of others. When her father is freed and takes her on a tour of Europe, she is unable emotionally to leave the prison behind her. I wonder if Jarod is reading this book, too. He has been asking questions about children in prison.”

            “Yes, and our search of juvenile facilities turned up nothing.” She dumped it back on his desk.

            “I think he’s talking about himself.”

            “But where does Clennam come in?” Broots asked.

            “Arthur Clennam is another primary character. After a cold and lonely childhood, he goes about trying to help people.” He picked up the book and found a passage. “Listen. This is a description of Arthur Clennam, and it’s a description of Jarod.

            “’He was a dreamer in such wise, because he was a man who had, deep-rooted in his nature, a belief in all the gentle and good things his life had been without. Bred in meanness and hard dealing, this had rescued him to be a man of honourable mind and open hand. Bred in coldness and severity, this had rescued him to have a warm and sympathetic heart.

            “’And this saved him still from the whimpering weakness and cruel selfishness of holding that because such a happiness or such a virtue had not come into his little path, or worked well for him, therefore it was not in the great scheme, but was reducible, when found in appearance, to the basest elements. A disappointed mind he had, but a mind too firm and healthy for such unwholesome air. Leaving himself in the dark, it could rise into the light, seeing it shine on others and hailing it.’”

            Broots and Parker were staring at him as he read in his gentle, accented voice. “Have you ever thought about doing audiobooks?” Broots asked.

            “No, I haven’t,” Sydney answered solemnly.

            “Is Jarod every character in that book?” Miss Parker demanded.

            “No,” Sydney smiled. “There are far too many characters. But now that I think about it, Charles Dickens wrote about many situations which Jarod knows intimately.”

            “Does this get us any closer to finding him?”

            “I don’t think so. But if he’s reading these books, it’s getting me into what’s going on in his head.”

            “Horrors,” she muttered and stalked out.

            “Sydney,” Broots whispered, “about that telephone call. There are no wrong numbers at the Centre. People don’t just accidentally call us up. Unauthorized calls are routed elsewhere—except Jarod’s, of course, because he can always get around the system.”

            “I know.”

            “Do you think it was Jarod?”

            “No. It was a young woman.”

            “Why didn’t you tell Miss Parker?”

            “Because Miss Parker is far too ready to hold her gun on innocent people and entirely likely to shoot them.”

            “Yeah. Do you want me to look into it?”

            “Yes, but don’t tell Miss Parker why.”

            When Broots was gone, Sydney sat staring at the cover of the book. One thing he hadn’t told Broots about why he kept the importance of the telephone call from Miss Parker was how the girl’s question kept playing over and over in his head. Are you Mrs. Clennam? Whether or not she had meant it as a reference to Little Dorrit, he kept thinking of it as one, and it disturbed him.

            Are you Mrs. Clennam? A repellent but fascinating character, Mrs. Clennam. She refused to love Arthur but condemned him when he decided to have nothing to do with her cold, failing business, and she rebuffed his many advances and the chances he gave her to love him. Are you Mrs. Clennam? He was very much afraid he might be.