Mom was delighted that they’d come back so soon. She offered to cook lunch, but by way of consolation to Emma and Herbie, Dad had insisted that they order a pizza.
Heading upstairs to Emma’s room, Emma and Herbie couldn’t stop talking about what had happened on the boat.
“I just can’t believe we hit something,” she said. “I’ve never heard of that happening.”
“Yeah.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Quick thinking with the whole pivot thing.”
She swung her door open and they went inside. “You’re not getting sick of sailing, are you?”
He shook his head quickly. “No way.”
She was happy to hear that. Herbie had talked about becoming a navy captain ever since he was in fourth grade.
Herbie’s phone alarm beeped. He sighed.
“I’d better start on the homework.” He reached for their backpacks and took out their folders. The deal was that he did all their homework one day, and Emma would do it the next. They’d made the deal in fifth grade, and although Emma sometimes had to work harder than Herbie to get an equally good grade, it was better than having to do homework every night.
Herbie worked through their algebra problems, while Emma took out a book called Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Knots and began reading.
She had just come to a chapter about reef knots when she realized that Herbie was strangely quiet. Usually he did all the talking, even while doing algebra, and if she didn’t answer, he’d pester her with questions.
“Did you see Cad at school yesterday?” she asked.
“No,” Herbie said. Cad was a burly seventh grader whose real name was Cadogan. Everyone called him “Cardigan” and he hated the word so much that whenever Herbie wore a sweater to school, Cad beat him up.
“Then what?” she asked.
Herbie set down his pencil and took a deep breath. “Okay. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but…I think I should. I saw your dad on Tuesday.”
“You couldn’t have,” she said. “He was in Phoenix until Thursday.”
“I know he said that,” Herbie replied, getting flustered. “But I saw him. Here!”
Emma stared at him witheringly, then rolled her eyes. “Is this what you didn’t want to tell me on the boat?”
“Yeah. I swear I saw him at the marina,” Herbie said. “I mean technically, he was on Marina Boulevard. I was going to my tuba lesson and he was just down the block. I actually recognized his voice before I saw him. He was talking on his phone.”
“He was in Arizona.”
“I know that’s what he said.” Herbie got a bullish expression on his face. “But I’m sure it was him. I got a good look at him, and like I said, I recognized his voice.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know for sure.” Emma resumed reading, but it was hard to concentrate when Herbie was staring at her so intently. “How far away were you?”
“Half a block. I was just going over to say hi, but he went into the marina really fast.”
“So you didn’t get a good look at him.”
“No, I did. Then a few minutes later I saw him sail away on the Markab.”
Emma felt her cheeks burn hot. Herbie had suspected Dad of many things. She always told herself that he had a hyperactive imagination, but this accusation was new and it brought a flush of anger. Dad never went on the boat without her. “Remember the time you thought you saw my dad on that TV show about the Mafia?”
“This is totally different!”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “You’ve mistaken him for someone else before. And now you’re mistaking the Markab for a different boat—”
“No, I’m not.”
“Anyway,” she cut in, “my dad was gone this week.”
Herbie pressed his lips together. “I’m sure it was him.”
“How can you be sure when he was half a block away and—and it was probably getting dark anyway?”
“I think I’d recognize your dad,” Herbie said coldly. “And I’m sorry I had to tell you this, but I thought you should know.”
“Know what?”
Herbie’s cheeks were red now too.
Emma closed her book and stood up. “I have an idea—why don’t we just go downstairs and ask him about it?”
“No!” Herbie leapt up. “No, don’t do that.”
“Why not? He’ll tell us the truth.”
“Emma, that’s a really bad idea.”
She was out the door before Herbie could reach her. “Wait, wait,” he whispered, struggling to get past her on the landing. “Don’t tell him I said this, just in case—”
Aggravated, Emma shirked him and went downstairs.
Dad was in his study, a long, narrow room decorated with thick Persian carpets and old tea lamps. Tall bookshelves lined every wall, each overflowing with books. A grand mahogany desk stood at the end of the room, and Dad was sitting there, writing in a ledger.
“Hey, Dad,” Emma said, plunking herself down in one of the overstuffed chairs. Herbie stood awkwardly beside a lamp.
“Hi, guys,” Dad said.
“Where were you this week?” Emma asked.
He looked up. “In Phoenix. Why?”
“Just wondering how your week was.” She gave Herbie a subtle I-told-you-so look. “You were at that conference, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you were gone the whole week?”
“Well, yes,” he said, looking at her oddly. “Why are you asking?”
“It just seems like a long time,” she replied.
“It sure felt like forever,” he said. “These things usually do.”
As he pattered on with ridiculous details, like the way the hotel bar had served “southwestern peanuts” (whatever those were) and how Phoenix was as scorching hot as the bird it was named after, Emma felt a wave of satisfaction. Of course Herbie had seen someone else at the marina.
“Pizza’s going to be here any minute!” Mom called from the kitchen. “Jack, do you have any cash?”
Dad stood up, reached for his wallet, and left the room.
The minute Dad was out of earshot, Herbie whispered, “He’s lying.”
Emma blew air out of her cheeks and reminded herself that Herbie had once dared to suggest that Dad was an alien.
“He went somewhere else this week,” Herbie said in a very arch tone.
“Whatever…”
“No, listen. I think he went out on the boat.”
“You can’t get to Phoenix on a boat,” she snapped, leaping out of the chair.
“I know.” Herbie glared at her. “So I guess he didn’t go to Phoenix.”
A cold silence passed between them.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Herbie whispered. “The mainsail was untied—he never leaves it untied. And the fuel tank was empty. But I’m one hundred percent certain we filled it up last week. Remember he spilled gasoline on his foot and he drove all the way home with one shoe in the trunk?”
Emma felt a twinge of alarm. “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” she said flatly. “Why don’t you ask him this time?” It was a mean thing to do, knowing Herbie would never ask her dad anything.
The doorbell rang.
Herbie pressed his lips together. “I think your dad might—” Seeing Emma’s scowl, he hesitated and took a breath. “I think he might be smuggling things.”
“Now you think my dad is a drug lord?” Emma blurted.
“No!” Herbie said.
“Listen, my dad is not a spy, not an alien, and not a drug lord,” she hissed. “And there is nothing weird going on.”
CRACK!
The sound of breaking glass startled them both. Then came a shriek from the front of the house.
Emma and Herbie bolted for the door, but before they could reach it, Dad burst in, slamming the door behind him and lurching for a bookshelf.
“What’s going on?” Emma cried.
Dad yanked a book from the shelf—she couldn’t see which one—and with a loud pop, a lower section of the bookshelf snapped out of the wall, opening like a door.
“Get in!” he hissed.
“Wait, what’s going on?” Emma demanded.
He pushed her head down and shoved her into the compartment. Herbie scrambled in behind her. “Stay in here no matter what. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”
Emma had rarely heard this tone from him before, and it frightened her. “Yeah.”
He shut the door with a final, disturbing thunk, cramming them into a hot, dark hidey-hole that, until two minutes ago, Emma hadn’t even known existed. It smelled like dust and leather and wood. There was not much space, and they were forced to curl their knees into their chests, their shoulders touching. A bit of light came in through a long, narrow peephole at eye level. They could just see past the row of books and into the study. Only then did Emma realize that Mom was shouting and that heavy footsteps were thundering through the house.