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  She pats me on the shoulder again as I hold the ladder for her and starts to climb. She moves quickly. Not only is Charlie strong, she’s fast. If she wanted to, she could probably be on the track team. Proving the point, she reaches the window in no time and pushes up the window to give her more room. Then, just like that, she slips inside. A few seconds later she reappears. “We’re in luck. This is Greg’s room,” she calls down to me.

  “Not so loud,” I call back in a half whisper.

  “I’m going to make a quick check through the house.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just being thorough. I won’t be long. If I don’t find it, I’ll be back to search his room. You need to get out front.” She commands me with a sweep of her arm. “Go.”

  She disappears from the window, and I hurry to the fence and open it while taking a deep breath. Then I stroll around to the front of the house, where, like before, I cross the street nonchalantly. Nothing to see here. I end up at the same bench where I’d left Charlie earlier this morning.

  Some of the house’s front windows have curtains, a few closed, others open, partially or completely. Hopefully Charlie is smart enough to stay where she can’t be seen.

  The playground has filled up. A lot more kids now run and chase each other, screaming and laughing. They throw balls and swing on swings and climb on the jungle gym while their parents chat and keep an eye on them.

  Time slows to a crawl as I wait for Charlie’s text telling me she’s found the backpack. Not being able to see her, wondering how the search is going, makes me more nervous than I already am.

  I check my phone, surprised to see only five minutes have passed since she went inside. It feels longer.

  Did I just see the curtains rustling in the front window? Without thinking, I reach into my backpack for the binoculars. Before I can whip them out, a figure pops up next to me, startling me so much I practically jump out of my shoes. But it’s just a boy trying to get a ball that has rolled under the bench. I reach down to pick it up and hand it to him. The boy doesn’t move; he just stares at me. I’m about to ask what he wants when he grabs the ball, turns, and calls out, “I’ve got it!” Then he hurries off.

  Strange little dude.

  I glance at my phone again. Only two more minutes have gone by.

  What was up with that kid? Do I look odd sitting here? Suspicious? The way I keep shaking my leg and checking my phone every few minutes, of course I look suspicious.

  Take a breath, Alden. Act casual.

  I need something to do. I pull out a pen and my notebook from my backpack. Taking a moment to formulate my thoughts, I begin taking notes.

  Evidence so far:

  Witnessed Greg arguing with Amy.

  Witnessed Amy lying on the ground, dead or unconscious.

  Witnessed Greg standing over her with blood on his backpack.

  Amy’s body wasn’t there when the police arrived. Greg must have moved it.

  Amy is supposed to be at church camp. But found Amy’s cross, which she is never without, lying at the spot where she was struck.

  Seeing it all written down like this causes a sharp, icy chill to course through me. Time is ticking. Could Amy’s life hang in the balance?

  I check the time again. Charlie has now been in the house for over ten minutes. How much longer does she need? The longer this takes, the more chances a neighbor might notice something funny. Like a ladder leaning against an open upstairs window in the back of the house.

  “Are you all right?” I hear behind me. I turn, expecting a cop wondering what I’m doing here, acting so nervous and writing notes. But what I heard was a father, about ten feet away, helping his teary-eyed son to his feet, brushing off grass and dirt. “You’re all right,” he says to the boy, giving him a hug before sending him off to play some more. Turning, he sees me looking at him and smiles. “It’s okay, he’s fine.”

  I smile back. Then I turn around and let out another long breath. Of course I check my phone again. Time seems to have sped up now. It’s been almost fifteen minutes. How much longer does she need? I hope she’s back in Greg’s room by now.

  A horrible thought comes to me: What if Charlie had an accident in there? Fell and broke her leg? Lost her phone in the fall and can’t reach it, or worse, she’s knocked unconscious? If she’s unable to text me, how would I know anything was wrong?

  A good investigator always has a plan B in case something goes wrong.

  So what is my plan B? I’d have to go in and rescue her. But how long should I wait until I do something? Five more minutes? Ten? I’d have to use the ladder to get inside. But if she’s hurt or unconscious, how do I get her down?

  I’m getting ahead of myself. Calm down. I’ll give her a few more minutes. If I haven’t heard from her by then, I’ll text and ask how much longer she thinks she’ll need.

  I put away my notebook and start to do the same with my pen when a sudden noise startles me, and I drop it. I pick it up as I look up and down the street. Was that a police siren? Did a neighbor see something and call the police? I hear it again. Another short, quick burst. Then a car appears, slowing down and pulling over across the street. Followed by a police car, lights flashing. It stops behind the first car.

  Right in front of the Matthes house.

  Stay calm, I tell myself, resisting the urge to run. For about a minute there’s no movement, except for the cop talking into her handset inside her cruiser. I look over at the other car and recognize the teenager behind the wheel as a Milton High School senior, Tommy Zimmerman. And then it dawns on me. The police officer isn’t here to check a report of a break-in. She pulled Tommy over, for speeding or whatever. She’s probably checking his license plate with the dispatcher at the station. If I get a text from Charlie that she’s ready to come out, I’ll just tell her to wait.

  The cop is still in her car. Tommy keeps glancing back over his shoulder at the police car and fuming, clearly unhappy. The cop finally gets out, ticket book in hand. She takes her sweet time walking to the driver’s side, while Tommy rolls down his window and puts on his best innocent look.

  The officer, looking very stern, begins talking. Tommy works to keep the innocent look on his face, though I can see it starting to slip. After what seems like forever, he fishes his driver’s license out of his wallet and opens the glove compartment to get the car registration, handing both to the officer. The two talk some more. What do they have to talk about? Give him the ticket and let him go on his way, jeez.

  Some of the people in the playground have stopped what they were doing to watch the show playing out in front of them. I check my phone. No message. Charlie must be almost finished by now.

  The cop takes Tommy’s license and registration and sits in the cruiser again, writing the ticket.

  I stare at her, willing her to write faster. Maybe a minute later, the officer gets out, and gives the ticket to Tommy. Then she talks to him—Oh, for crying out loud, finish up already!—probably giving him a lecture. Tommy’s head moves like a bobblehead in agreement.

  Finally, the police officer returns to her car and gets in. Tommy drives away slowly. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let the air out in one long whoosh. I lean back against the bench, watching the police cruiser pull away from the curb.

  And there’s Greg Matthes walking down the street, just one house away from his own home.

  What the hell is he doing here already? Practice shouldn’t be over by now. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is he’s here. Now.

  And Charlie’s still inside.

  My fingers feel like fat sausages as I text GET OUT.

  He approaches his front door. I want to disappear into the bench, but he doesn’t seem to notice me. Greg fishes for his keys while my foot taps frantically on the ground. He inserts a key into the doorknob, then goes inside, shutting the d
oor.

  I bolt across the street, not caring about being nonchalant. Pushing through the fence door, I hurry to where the ladder is still leaning against the house. I look up at the window of Greg’s room. Come on, Charlie, where are you?

  And then I see her. She has nothing with her; I guess she didn’t find the backpack. She sees me, waves, then begins to step out of the window and onto the highest step of the ladder. I hold it steady for her.

  But with one foot out, she stops and puts her hand up. Then she hisses “Hide!” and abruptly disappears back into the room. I call out her name in my own harsh whisper, but she doesn’t respond. I run to the shed, my backpack in hand, before looking back. I don’t see Charlie. Then Greg enters his room. He turns toward the open window, and I duck behind the shed.

  I take a moment to control my runaway heartbeat before I peer out from my hiding place. It doesn’t seem like Greg saw me, but has he found Charlie? Is she hiding? He’s standing near the window, doing nothing for the moment. If he glances down, he’ll see the ladder leaning against the house. Thankfully, he moves away, out of sight.

  I reach into my backpack, pulling out my notebook first, then the binoculars. I creep out from behind the shed; I can always duck back if I have to. Using the binoculars, I focus in on Greg talking to someone on his phone. He doesn’t seem angry like he did the last time I saw him like this, though it does look like something’s bothering him.

  I can see most of the room now. It’s big. There are posters of sports stars I don’t recognize on a brown-paneled wall, a bed, and a worn recliner pushed against one corner. A shelf next to his bed is full of gaudy trophies, and more cover the entire top of an end table on the other side. There’s a closet, and a desk with a laptop on it. His room is nice. And clean, of course. Much nicer and cleaner than mine.

  Where is Charlie?

  The call seems go on forever. Greg paces from one side of the room to the other, before he finally finishes and tosses his phone on his bed. He slips off his practice shirt and, shirtless, he crosses to the closet. My stomach tightens as he opens the door. Could Charlie have gone in there? But all he does is pull a button-down shirt from a hangar and put it on. Through the binoculars, I try peering inside the closet, but I can’t see much.

  Leaving the closet door open, he walks to the center of the room. He seems to be thinking again. I had no idea he was such a big thinker. He needs to get out so Charlie can escape. What if he decides to take a nap or read a book or who knows what?

  A plan begins to formulate as I watch Greg head back to the closet. This time he pushes aside hanging clothes, walking in deeper until I can’t see him. If Charlie is hiding in there, he’s sure to find her now. I wait, tense, expecting to see Greg yanking Charlie out of the closet any second. What do I do if that happens? I keep the binoculars trained on the closet, my fingers hurting from holding them so tight.

  My muscles relax as he reappears without Charlie. If I’m going to do something to get him out of his room, I need to do it now. I stand up and take a deep breath. My legs won’t move. Do it! Now!

  I run across the backyard, reach the fence, and push open the door, racing toward the front porch. There are fewer people at the playground, and thankfully, none of them are looking my way.

  My plan in place, I ring the doorbell.

  When Greg doesn’t come to the door, I ring again and peer through the front window. There’s movement on a second-floor landing, then feet on the stairs.

  I hurry back around the house. Charlie is at the window. She waves at me, but instead of climbing out of the window, she gives me a wait-a-minute sign and turns from view. I wait nervously, hopping from one leg to the other. Greg has definitely seen no one was at the front door by now. Hurry up, hurry up!

  Again, I run around to the front of the house, where I ring the bell twice, then hurry back to the rear of the house, praying for the best.

  Framed in the window, Charlie gives me a big smile as she lifts up what she’s holding in her hand. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.

  Greg’s backpack.

  Greg’s bloody backpack.

  Oh God, she’s touching it. Why didn’t we think of this? It’s going to get contaminated with her DNA. Too late to do anything about it now. I motion for her to hurry. First, she throws out the backpack, and it lands at my feet. Then she’s out of the window and climbing down the ladder so fast she’s a third of the way down by the time I’m steadying it. Without warning, she jumps, bringing the ladder with her. I manage to grab it before it hits me, then together we lean it haphazardly against the shed. Charlie hoists the backpack onto her shoulder and says, “Let’s go.”

  My backpack! As Charlie runs toward the fence door, I head behind the shed, where I grab it and my binoculars. There’s no sign of Greg at the windows, and Charlie is waiting for me with the fence door open, so I take off toward her, and, together, we burst out of the backyard. Keeping up with Charlie isn’t easy, but I run like I’ve never run before, praying that Greg isn’t watching.

  Chapter Ten

  The Matthes house is the only one for several blocks with a fence, so we stick to backyards until we feel safe enough to return to the front sidewalk and slow our pace.

  Charlie’s house is closer, so we end up there. Once inside, we collapse on the couch; Charlie drops the infamous backpack at our feet. We may have slowed to a walk for the last few blocks, but my heart is still pounding against my chest. “Are you sure your mom’s not coming home soon?” I ask.

  Charlie laughs. “I told you, she’s shopping and having lunch with a friend today. She won’t be home until midafternoon.” She takes a deep breath, then blurts out, “That was exciting,” before bursting into fresh laughter. After another moment, she asks, “Do you want some ginger ale?”

  She knows that’s my favorite soda. “Sure.” By the time she’s back with two cans of ginger ale, she’s laughing again. Handing me one, she pops the other, and after drinking half of the can, she declares, “If I had known being a criminal was so much fun, I might have tried it a long time ago.”

  “I was scared,” I tell her.

  “Scared? You big goof.” She’s about to laugh again, but when I don’t come back with the usual response, she stops and puts her soda on the coffee table. “All right, yeah, it was scary. But that’s part of what makes it fun. And look!” She lifts Greg’s backpack in triumph. “We got it!”

  When I don’t respond, she drops the bag back on the floor, then sits back, frowning at me.

  Finally, I break the silence. “He almost caught us.”

  “Did you see the phone conversation he was having?” Charlie says. “He was talking to a friend. Told him the coach sent him home because he was playing so poorly. He blamed himself, not the coach. Even after killing somebody, he comes off like Mr. Goody Two-Shoes.”

  “I figured that’s what it was.”

  “Yeah, well, everything’s good now.”

  “We just threw the ladder back. What if they notice?” I say.

  “They won’t.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “It was close enough,” she says. “He won’t notice.”

  “He might once he realizes his backpack is gone. He’ll know someone is on to him.”

  “Will you chill out? Even if he does realize his backpack is gone, he won’t know we took it,” she says.

  “He will once we give the backpack to your dad.”

  Now Charlie scowls at me. “This was your idea, you know.” She sits back and takes another sip. “Greg won’t have to know it came from us,” she says. “At least not right away. Not until you have to testify about what you saw.”

  My stomach turns inside out. I hadn’t considered the possibility I might have to testify in court. In front of all those people. In front of Greg Matthes.

  “You know, he might not find out the ba
ckpack’s gone,” Charlie says. “Not for a while, anyway.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He didn’t just have it hidden in the closet. He’d put it under some loose floorboards. I’d already checked the closet. I wouldn’t even have known I’d missed it if he hadn’t gotten it out himself. When you rang the doorbell the first time, he put it back. I went into the closet, saw one of the floorboards sort of sticking out, pulled it up, and found the backpack. If he doesn’t check for it…” She shrugs.

  “Where were you hiding?” I ask. “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Behind a chest of drawers in the corner of the room right next to the window.”

  “That was dangerous,” I say.

  “Best I could do. And if I’d gotten out before he came in, I wouldn’t have seen him get the backpack out, so we’re all good. We got away, and Greg didn’t see us.”

  Charlie picks up the backpack. I remember my concern about DNA, but I guess it doesn’t matter if she keeps touching it. “I can’t figure out why he’s holding on to this, though,” she says. “He should have thrown it away as far from here as he could. Or maybe it’s got sentimental value, and he hopes he can clean the blood off. That’d be pretty stupid on his part.”

  She takes a closer look at the blood showing on the front pocket. “There’s not as much blood as I thought there’d be, the way you talked about it.”

  She’s right. At the time, I’d thought blood covered the entire front, not just the pocket. Most of the blood I see now could probably be covered with both of my hands.

  “But nobody ever said there has to be a lot of blood to kill somebody,” Charlie says. She shakes the bag. “Before you rang the doorbell, I thought he was about to reach inside it for something, but it feels empty.” She zips it open, reaches in, and moves her hand around. Then she checks the pockets, unzipping each one. Finally, she shrugs. “Like I said, empty.” The bag ends up on the couch between us.