31

I slip the key into my pocket and go back to our table. Clooney Wickham is there, taking the dessert orders from everyone.

“We got three pieces of blueberry pie left, plenty of whoopie pies, gingerbread with hot lemon sauce, and maple walnut ice cream.”

We all order without delay.

I keep my eye on the sisters’ table, where Mrs. Billingsley is still fussing over Groucho, but I notice that Mom has grabbed an open seat at the counter. She appears to be watching them too. Yes. She listens to me. She may not realize it, but she does.

“Guys,” I tell my table, “I know who the man in black is.” All of their heads turn to me. “It’s Mrs. Billingsley.”

Ben laughs. “Okay, that’s a little crazy.”

Dominic jumps on the idea. “Dang. Yeah. Think about it. She’s never been to Maiden Rock until now. She’s a loner. She’s not interested in meeting anyone unless it gets her a seat at the table. She stirs up trouble. She might actually know Hubert.”

I pull out my phone, type Billingsley in the search bar, and add and Pivot. My screen fills up with links instantly. I can’t believe this. During the search when I found those clips of Hubert, none of this appeared.

There’s a stream of articles about a Massachusetts company Mrs. Billingsley owned. It was exposed as having never paid its employees the retirement pensions it had promised them.

“Are you ready for this?” I hand my phone over to Ella, who reads the story I’ve pulled up and gasps. She hands it to Ben, who says, “Whoa.” He hands it to Dominic, who nods his head.

“See?” I tell them. “She’s been involved in some shady stuff. And she has the right height, the right build.”

“But what’s her motivation?” Ella asks.

“She’s his mother.”

“Whaa? No! Seriously!?” Ben slaps his hand on the table.

I scroll through more pages of Pivot and Billingsley, and it doesn’t take long. There’s a picture of her with Hubert in happier times, in front of Shovela. I show it to the group.

Everyone’s head turns back to Mrs. Billingsley. We sit and eat our whoopie pies so as not to raise suspicion, but as soon as we’re done, we are out of there.

On the way to my house, we make a plan to sneak to Mrs. Billingsley’s house after dark and check the key in her lock. If it opens the door—that’s it, she’s our man.

* * *

Waiting for my parents to go to sleep takes an eternity. Once sundown comes, the guys have to go home, despite their best efforts to hang with me, Ella, and Zoe, who has finished up what her mom calls quality family time. Dominic’s dad actually walks over and says good night for him. Ben’s uncle John calls him, and I can hear the command in his voice. That leaves me and Ella and Zoe on the back porch, where we’re idling until we can find the right time to sneak up to beach house #16 and try the key.

“Kinda sucks to be back here, huh?” Ella says to Zoe.

Zoe’s tucked up into a ball, hugging her knees. “Uh-huh.”

“I sort of know,” Ella says. “I mean, I moved to Maiden Rock from New York.”

“Do you miss it?”

I’m listening intently for the answer.

“Not really,” Ella says. “Not since Gusty’s got an espresso maker, anyway.”

“There are no guys here,” Zoe says. “It didn’t bother me when I was a little kid, but that sucks.”

“There are lots of guys at Rook River High.”

Then Zoe surprises me—she perks up and asks Ella to tell her about the tenth grade boys.

This is the most energized I’ve seen Zoe since she got back. With Dominic on my mind, I can’t exactly relate, but it’s good to see her looking forward to something.

By one a.m., my house has gone quiet and the town is still—except for the sound of the breaking waves. It’s one of those smooth ocean nights. The moon shines on the glassy-topped swells and the waves tuck tight against the outcroppings, as if they’re trying to be quiet too.

We sneak down my stairs and walk down the beach toward #16. Our mission is solely to see if the key opens the front door. We pass five beach houses along the way. #11 is dark. No summer guest is occupying it yet. #12 has a faint light in an upstairs window. It may be the flickering of a TV. #13 is asleep, with towels drying on the porch rail. #14 is still boarded up. #15 is dark, but I know the Stevenses are inside. They’re just sound asleep—I hope.

We walk between #15 and #16, ducking down and shushing each other. Since I did the walk-through with Mrs. Billingsley, I can assume she is sleeping in the big bedroom upstairs.

I take the key from my pocket and put my foot on the first wooden step to the door. It creaks. Ella and Zoe grab me. I don’t know what would produce the least amount of ruckus—taking each step slowly or dashing up. I decide on a dash.

Creak. Crack. Snap!

Bark-bark-bark-bark.

Groucho is growling and howling and throwing himself at the window above us. For a split second, we’re frozen. The light in the room overhead snaps on, shedding its glow on the steps below. We jump and dart like rabbits after gunfire—between the houses, up the beach, up our steps, onto the porch, and into our sleeping bags.

We don’t talk. We’re all breathing heavily. After about a half an hour of trying to calm ourselves down, our heartbeats have slowed, but we keep asking each other, “Are you awake?”