I never thought the smell of pine and old books could feel so dangerous. Snow was coming down thick that night outside Whispered Pages, our family bookstore on Church Street in Burlington. The flakes drifted past the streetlamps, soft and relentless, turning the world quiet. Inside, the lights were low, the tree glowed in the corner, and the last customer had just left. I was slumped at the counter, pretending to study wh...