26

Zane

ZANE TUGGED OPEN A DRESSER DRAWER AND RIFLED THROUGH the contents. Socks, nothing but socks. He yanked open another. Only sweaters.

Zane could not believe Marigold had gone and stuck her nose in his business. What was she thinking, trying to mail his treasures to New Jersey? He’d spent days collecting that stuff, and now Marigold had probably gone and told their mom, and if that were true he’d be in even more trouble, especially if his parents ever discovered that he was . . .

WORTHLESS.

Zane slammed the sweater drawer closed and opened another.

His only hope now, he reasoned, was to get enough money from Louie to fix the whole apartment. With the bicycle Zane had found parked against the dying hedge outside, he could be at the pawn shop in less than an hour. Sure, he’d have to create a convincing lie about how he came by so much money, but when his parents saw all that cash, they wouldn’t question him too hard. They’d just be thrilled about how thoughtful their son was, offering up his hard-earned fortune to help the family.

Zane moved on to the closet. Whipped his way through the dress shirts and slacks. He’d thought for sure that Toby would have something worth stealing (the quietest ones, in Zane’s experience, always had the best secrets), but it seemed Zane was wrong. There was nothing interesting or valuable in Toby’s room. Just some boring old clothes, a neatly made bed, and a half-full glass of water on the nightstand. The only decoration on the plain white walls was a small, sketchy illustration in a black wooden frame.

What a dud.

Zane hoisted the powder blue suitcase to his side and stepped into the hallway.

* * * 

Had Zane taken a moment to inspect things a little more closely, he would have discovered that there was, in fact, something quite interesting about the picture in the black wooden frame.

Beige.

Cracked.

Knobby.

As wide as a rib of celery and as long as a pencil.

On the wall of Toby’s bedroom was a framed illustration of Mrs. Asher’s hairpin.