RULE FOUR Take note of everything, no matter how insignificant. We’re smart, but not that smart.

At first, Jacob and I check the window every few minutes for signs of the landscaper. But after a while we just focus on the games. I’m terrible, but Jacob doesn’t tease me (too much, at least). It’s not until Mr. Buckley asks for Jacob’s help in the kitchen that I notice the sun setting over the evening sky and the empty spot where the van used to be. I instruct Jacob to be ready for another early sleuthing session tomorrow and head back to my great-aunt’s house.

I skip down the Buckleys’ front steps, greeted by the chirping of summer crickets and a soothing, cool breeze. Just as my sneaker hits the cul-de-sac’s pavement, a strained voice calls from behind me.

“Dearie?” Jacob’s neighbor, Mrs. Watkins, peers through the front door. She knocks on its surface from the inside, as though inviting herself onto the street. The cartoonish owls on her nightgown stare me down with their yellow eyes. “Did you know owls and dolphins are great friends? If the species are separated for long, it will break their hearts!”

Nothing she’s saying aligns with what I learned in Ms. Welch’s biology class. But I can’t help but pause; breaking hearts makes me think of Florence’s cause of death.

But Jacob told me to ignore her, and right now she’s the least of my problems. I head across the street, aimed for the open gates.

As I run up the front steps, I notice Andrew’s tutor’s car is still in the driveway. That means Aunt Wendy will probably need to speak with the tutor before coming after me. It’s not much, but it should hopefully buy me a little bit of time to talk to Dad and ask him what he knows about the mansion’s landscaper. And more about his relationship with Aunt Wendy, too.

I also need to jot down what I know about the case so far. One of Mom’s detective rules is to take note of everything, no matter how insignificant. Without a proper trail, there’s no way to tie it all together. “We’re smart,” she wrote, “but not that smart.”

When I slip through the front door, I hear Dad’s voice echo through the dining area. He’s laughing more than I’ve ever heard in ages. What in this house could he find that funny?

I sneak past the dinner table toward the adjacent living room and slink along the wall, my backpack grazing the wallpaper. Through the doorway connecting the two spaces, I see Dad sitting on Great-Aunt Florence’s leather sofa. Across from him is the tutor, Alanna, also laughing hard enough to break a rib.

For some reason, it makes me clench my teeth. I hang back, not making my presence known.

A voice makes me jump. “Great, isn’t it? I haven’t had to touch my textbook for the past hour.”

Andrew appears on the other side of the doorframe. He leans his shoulder against it, hands in his pockets.

“I thought having you and your dad around was going to stink,” he says without a trace of tact, “but this is pretty awesome. I’m glad your dad finds her interesting. She’s basic, compared to the tutors I had when we lived overseas.”

I ignore Andrew’s brag, focused on eavesdropping. Alanna says something I can’t hear and Dad’s smile stretches to his ears. She shifts on the couch, her knees pointing toward his.

I grip the doorframe so hard, my nails chip the paint.

“Where were you all morning, anyhow?” Andrew asks.

I hold up a finger to shush him. “With my friend Jacob,” I answer in a hurry.

“Jacob Buckley?” Andrew practically spits his name. “I hate that kid.”

“It’s mutual,” I say, still holding a silencing finger to my lips.

Andrew doesn’t take the hint. “He’s practically my nemesis. We got in a fight a couple weeks back.”

He draws the word out, low and long, like it was a swear or something. I finally turn my attention to him, just in time to see a proud flicker in his eye.

I frown. “Jacob didn’t mention getting in a fight.”

Sure, Jacob was a bit grumpy, but he didn’t seem violent. Andrew, on the other hand, was like a windup toy that had been twisted too tight. If his story was true, I bet he started it. I know I shouldn’t assume, but Mom always said to trust my gut.

“We did. In martial arts class.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

Andrew shrugs. “He’s been going for ages and made some comment about how my form was crap. So I ignored the instructor and initiated a real fight.”

Something about his story nags at the back of my mind. I stare at the dark red rug and wrack my memory.

That’s when it hits me. “Why were you at martial arts class?”

Color rises in Andrew’s cheeks. “My therapist recommended it after my parents split. But Mom didn’t make me go back after that happened.” His voice picks up a defensive speed. “I still have his number from a group text the instructor sent. I’m just waiting for the perfect prank to get revenge.”

He needs me to know he can still even the score. My mind is snagged on another detail. “I meant why were you there weeks ago?” I press. “I thought you arrived yesterday, same as us.”

If Aunt Wendy and Andrew arrived weeks ago, then they were here when Great-Aunt Florence died. That placed Aunt Wendy at the scene of the crime. She may have even known the cause of death before the doctor called, which would mean she had something to hide when she tampered with our cells.

And the fact that she was lying about when they arrived—and having her son do the same—meant she was definitely hiding something.

Andrew’s eyes grow to the size of the decorative plates hanging on the wall behind him. “Forget I said that.”

I crinkle my nose. “When has that ever worked for you?”

He bites his lower lip before sprinting into the next room. “Pepper’s home!”

Dad and Alanna jump, leaping back to their respective ends of the couch. They look as guilty as Andrew, and it makes the hairs on my arms rise.

Dad adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Honey, when did you get here?”

Before I can answer, the clack of Aunt Wendy’s shoes approaches. I sense her right behind me but can’t will myself to turn.

“Alanna, you’re still here?” Aunt Wendy calls over my head. “Did Andrew run into trouble with the material?”

“Not at all.” Alanna springs to her feet and smooths down her pencil skirt. “In fact, I was about to head out.”

As Alanna exits through the dining room’s second doorway, my aunt’s attention turns back to me.

“I can’t get over the fact that you wear this thing inside!” She laughs, fingers drumming my backpack straps. “You should let yourself get comfortable, silly.”

I swear my skin is just one giant goose bump at this point.

I cross my arms so the straps can’t slip off. “I prefer to keep it on.”

My dad smiles. “She’s like a little turtle.”

I wiggle, shrugging her off. She runs a hand against her blond hair, then steps around me.

“I’m going to freshen up before starting dinner,” she announces, crossing the dining room. “Wait until you try this wonderful bread I found at the bakery yesterday. The carbs are worth it.”

“Wendy,” Dad calls, sitting up straight. “After dinner, can we talk about the will?”

She pauses to regard my dad. “Always so down-to-business, Frank.”

She leans over him. I step forward instinctively.

But all she does is plant a kiss on his forehead. “After everything with Brandon, I’m exhausted by lawyers. A bit more time and we’ll settle it all. I promise.”

Aunt Wendy straightens up, smiling softly. Dad gives her hand a quick squeeze. “I know, Wen. I’m in no rush. Take whatever time you need.”

Aunt Wendy turns and grins—actually grins—over at me. “Your dad has always been obsessed with rules and deadlines. He never would have left the guest room the summers we spent here if it weren’t for me.”

Dad raises his eyebrows and chuckles, as though this is a conversation he and Aunt Wendy have been having for years. “Aunt Florence made her rules pretty clear.” He holds up his fingers, listing them from memory. “Don’t touch her collections, stay out of the basement, and be in bed by eight.”

Aunt Wendy laughs. “Thankfully, I only had one rule: that after eight, none of Aunt Florence’s rules mattered.”

It makes my skin itch to think of Aunt Wendy having her own rulebook of sorts. Especially when her rule let her break any that were set by others. It makes me wonder how many other rules she’s broken over the years—perhaps even in the past couple of weeks, since returning to the mansion.

“Your dad knew better than to argue with his big sister,” Aunt Wendy teases. Dad rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look offended in the least. “If he wasn’t so easy to persuade, we would have never had the adventures we did those summers.”

For some reason, seeing Aunt Wendy act like a sister creeps me out as much as her acting like a murderer. Dad and Aunt Wendy shared a lot more history—and love (ew)—than I thought. It’s hard to picture my tightly wound aunt as the younger, adventurous version of herself. I imagine a girl like me, but with Aunt Wendy’s smooth blond hair. I imagine her tugging Dad by his wrist down Great-Aunt Florence’s stairs, coercing him into a nighttime exploration of the mansion.

It doesn’t align with the version of Aunt Wendy in my mind and my clues. It leaves me unsettled.

“Too bad you kids can’t see this place how it used to be,” Aunt Wendy says, a distant look in her eyes. “Creeping around these halls at night and digging out Aunt Florence’s travel souvenirs was like going on a scavenger hunt around the world.” She wraps her arms over her chest as she says, tone darkened, “But I guess selling everything after Uncle passed saves us grief now. It’s easier for the lawyers to deal with the profits rather than the items themselves.”

The word profits lingers in my mind. But I can’t decipher the distant look in Aunt Wendy’s eyes. Is she nostalgic for the items, and the memories they hold? Or longing for the payoff?

Aunt Wendy takes off down the hall, leaving me with Dad. I join him on the couch. “Dad, I have to tell you about my day…” My voice trails off as I notice his hands. Or, rather, the glaring lack of a wedding band on his ring finger.

“What?” he asks, smiling gently.

His voice is barely audible over the thumping in my head. I reach out and press my fingertip against the pale circle of skin where his ring should be. His lips part with a silent oh.

“Pepper, I—”

A shrill cry from the hall interrupts. “How dare you?”

Dad and I leap off the couch and dash down the hall. Aunt Wendy stands outside the doorway to Great-Aunt Florence’s office—the one I saw her in with the knife. Her cheeks match the white of the linoleum tiles, and her chin trembles as she speaks. She clenches and unclenches her shaking hands.

“How dare you!” she says again, voice high and splintery. “Coming into my home, invading my privacy. Who do you think you are?”

Alanna appears at the edge of the back hallway. “I got lost on my way to the bathroom,” she says, voice quivering.

Aunt Wendy inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. “Get out. Get out now, before I call the police.”

She is visibly shaking from head to toe. She’s seemed on edge since we arrived, but right now she looks about ready to completely unravel.

Whoever Aunt Wendy was years ago—sneaking around the mansion at night with my dad—is long gone, replaced by an older, colder version. One that’s trembling with a mixture of fury and fear.

What could she possibly be hiding in that office that she’s this terrified of being found?

Dad steps forward. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”

Alanna shoots him a grateful smile. My intestines coil in a knot.

“You can’t know that for sure,” I say.

I only meant for Dad to hear it. No, actually. I meant to keep it to myself. Or at least I wish I had. I clasp a hand over my mouth as Aunt Wendy’s trembling ceases and Alanna’s shoulders slump.

I’d done what no good detective should ever do: compromise a case for personal reasons.

Dad doesn’t argue as Aunt Wendy points a bony finger toward the front door; my comment—along with his desire to appease his anxious sister—has silenced him. Alanna wraps her arms around herself and hurries out wordlessly.

I should object, speak up on her behalf, but I don’t. I watch her pull the door shut behind her and hope that once it closes, my dad will put his ring back on.