What was true was that everyone reacted to the new letters differently.

Ben stayed tense and guarded. His temper settled close to the surface and flared intermittently.

Lucy began to talk openly about moving in with her best friend’s family back in Massachusetts.

Janie didn’t say a word.

Mrs. Donahue had all the locks changed overnight and installed security cameras at both the front and back doors.

And Mr. Donahue decided there was one avenue we hadn’t explored yet in searching for the Sentry.

“I don’t want any of you to worry,” he said a few days later from the front porch. “These people are professionals.”

I sat on the curb diagonally across the street because that’s as close as my mother would allow me to get. Toby sat beside me and occasionally wagged his tail as if reveling in his position close to the action. It seemed like the whole neighborhood had emerged from their houses. Mr. Donahue wore a faded tie-dyed T-shirt, the standard costume of a man who believed in hiring the services of paranormal experts. The van parked in their driveway was midnight blue, with lavender lettering across the side that read GHOST ADJUSTERS.

“It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.” My dad had the mower out, but he’d pushed it way past our property line. I glanced at it and then up at him. “Stop staring at me or I’ll have to start the lawn mower.”

“Mr. Leonardo, could you please explain your methods to my children? Just how do you intend to rid the home of evil spirits?” As Mr. Donahue spoke, he stared past Janie, Lucy, and Ben sitting listlessly on the steps of the front porch. Instead he looked intently at the Channel 5 Alive news station van, which idled in front of Miss Abbot’s place. “What kind of evil spirits do you sense? Are we in danger at this very moment?”

Mr. Leonardo looked as if he could have been a few months older than Ben, but that’s all. He’d frosted the tips of his black hair and sported a sparse goatee, which accentuated the sharp angle of his pronounced chin. He wore green cargo pants and had made good use of the pockets, with a professional-looking camera, a hammer, and what looked like a taser, each tucked into a separate compartment in the pants.

“Yeah, yeah. You know there is a tornado of passion and desperation swirling around here.” That sounded about right. As Mr. Leonardo, the Ghost Adjuster, spoke, I stared at Ben, wondering what kind of emotional weather he was experiencing. Mr. Leonardo nodded sagely. “Real distress.” He seemed to reach out his hands for Ben, Janie, and Lucy. Then his hands dropped down and sort of twitched by his sides.

“Daylight does us a great service, you know, keeping us safe. You all have absolutely nothing to worry about.” Mr. Leonardo held up his hands again. “We are simply making ourselves known right now.” He pointed what looked like a universal remote at the house and pressed a series of numbers. “Just trying to get a read on temperature of supernatural anger.”

“That’s probably just my mom,” Ben offered, and I could swear he winked at me.

Mr. Donahue laughed nervously and clapped Mr. Leonardo on the back. “My wife remains unconvinced.”

“None of you should be convinced yet. That’s actually quite helpful,” Mr. Leonardo said with the don’t-worry-I’m-a-cool-guy tone of a substitute teacher encouraging us to call him by his first name. “The brain waves of skeptics tempt spirits to prove their own presence. That’s when we witness and have the chance to document more paranormal activities.” Mr. Leonardo nodded to himself. “This is an awesome dialogue to open up between our world and the spirit world. Kudos to you, Mr. Donahue.”

It occurred to me that we all might have a calmer existence in Glennon Heights if someone like Mr. Leonardo could follow Mr. Donahue around all the time, praising him for his accidental achievements. Lucy leapt in, “We don’t really want a dialogue, though.” Her voice sounded as sour as usual. “We want it to stop.”

“Ah, of course you do.” Mr. Leonardo looked around and smiled indulgently. “But we don’t rule the spirit world. We can only make modest requests.” He dropped to his knees. Up and down the street, our neighbors craned their necks to see. We thought he might offer a prayer, but instead he opened a battered wooden box that looked as if it might contain treasure. Or ashes.

Mr. Leonardo pulled out a clump of feathery green leaves. He shook it toward Ben, Janie, and Lucy, but really toward the news van and the nosy neighbors. “Sage,” he announced. Then he shook the bunch of leaves in the direction of the Donahues’ front door. He crossed the yard and pointed the leaves at each window. He knelt down on the cobblestones on the front walk, chanting a song I could not decipher. Janie and Ben watched intently. I silently willed either of them to turn around, to grin or giggle or roll their eyes. But they faced forward. Apparently, Mr. Leonardo had jammed up all the psychic channels with his own efforts.

The guys standing against the news van appeared amused. One held up his camera sort of half-heartedly and I wondered where this latest episode would show up—nightly news, tabloid program, late-night bloopers? Mr. Leonardo spun around and declared, “This is the home of the Donahue family. All other essences must exit the premises!” Nothing moved on the breezeless street. Mr. Leonardo addressed Mr. Donahue: “Let’s please enter the domestic structure.”

I stood up to see the resolute back of Mr. Leonardo, the Ghost Adjuster, swallowed up by the darkened front hall of the house. Mr. Donahue frantically beckoned his children to follow. As they filed past him, he looked out toward the news van. The two guys shrugged and slouched forward too.

Janie’s dad held the door open, nodding gravely to them as they passed. He looked out to the street like he might invite us all inside as well. But he didn’t. He wanted to make sure we were all watching.

We were. Miss Abbot pretended to water her flowers with a limp hose. The Hurliheys had set out a blanket and were stretched out, enjoying coffee and pastries. My dad had already turned to start the trip home, pushing the toothless mower and nudging me to join him.

“Show’s over, Olivia,” he called. “Your mother and I would like you to steer clear of this mess.” Dad whistled and Toby strained at the leash.

“Then I won’t tell Mom on you either,” I told him, following.

“Your mother is a smart woman. We’d do well to listen to her on this one.”

I barely heard him, half listening for the sounds of breaking glass and slamming doors. When I turned back, the Donahue house looked ordinarily extraordinary—too big for the street but otherwise boring. The rest of the neighborhood had resumed its own business.

“How’s school?” Dad asked me.

“Fine.” The lawn mower squeaked a bit as he pushed it.

“Just fine? You’re in high school now. Don’t you feel empowered? Sophisticated?” I felt like my dad should have known that I had never, in the entirety of history, experienced those feelings. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You know, Liv, your mother and I have always encouraged you to stand up for what’s right.”

“I know that.” The lawn mower squeaked in agreement.

“Right.” We stood in front of our own house. “Sometimes it’s not easy to figure out what the right thing is. Long-term. We think we know.”

“We usually know,” I said, unsure where he was headed but not expecting to like it.

Dad sighed. “You’ve been a good friend to Janie. But no one expects you to sacrifice your entire high school career in defense of a family who has been fairly”—he grimaced, searching for the right word—“disruptive.”

“You mean their father?” My voice needled, like the lawn mower. “Their father is the disruptive one.”

“Right. Of course. No one’s blaming Janie—or any of the Donahue kids. But it might not hurt to just establish some distance. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand.” The ball in my throat felt thorny. “But I don’t think a kid should have to deal with the mistakes her father made.” I rolled back my shoulders and directly met his gaze.

Dad nodded sadly, in such a way that made the thorny lump in my throat swell. “Right. I’m just asking you to take care, Olivia. It’s not always okay to be selfish—you clearly know that. Sometimes though, it’s not the end of the world either.”

Whatever magic Mr. Leonardo made happen in the house, it didn’t take long. Within an hour, Janie texted me a single word: Dugout?

“I’m going for a run.” I went downstairs and told my dad.

“You want me to time you?”

“Not today. I just want to run until I stop thinking.”

Dad sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Good luck with that.”

I ran down Olcott and past the Donahues’ because I knew that otherwise I would have just wondered. Nothing looked any different, though. No ghostly vapors trailing out of the chimney. No black slime seeping out from under the heavy front door.

I refocused and kept running. I almost missed the little red car. Ned McGovern had parked it next to a hydrant and had some kind of song blaring—opera or something—and he pounded the steering wheel in time to the beat.

I picked up my pace and had almost cleared the corner when he swung open the driver’s-side door. “You!” I pretended not to hear him. “You’re Jillian’s niece.”

It made me mad that he didn’t even remember my name. I stopped and turned to face him. “I’m Jillian’s niece,” I confirmed. His face looked red and sweaty and I reassured myself that at least I could outrun him. “My name is Olivia.”

“Olivia, right. How are you doing, honey?” I looked past him, measuring how fast I could sprint to my dad. “Who was that man, Olivia?”

“What man?”

“You know what man.” Ned nodded toward 16 Olcott. “He stood on the front lawn for a while. And then they let him in. The Donahues.” He almost whispered the name.

“He’s there to perform some ceremony. Like a séance or something. You know—to get rid of any bad spirits in the house.”

I had expected the information to calm him down a little bit but Ned unleashed. “What? Unbelievable. They have no right.” He kicked at his own tire and slammed his arm against the red car’s roof. It seemed to me that Ned McGovern did not have a firm grasp on boundaries and the basic concept of possession. Of course the Donahues had a right. It was weird, but they had a right.

“He’s not even supposed to be on our street,” Janie said once I found her in the dugout at the baseball diamond and told her what had happened. We sat on the bench, both kicking at the holes in the chain-link fence. “It’s not a restraining order, because the police said that would affect his livelihood, but they strongly advised him to stay away.”

“I don’t think you’re fully appreciating how bizarre it was.”

“He didn’t chase you, right?”

“No, but he was blaring opera.”

“Fair point.”

“And speaking of bizarre … What did the Ghost Adjuster do anyway?” I asked Janie.

“He shook his plants all around. There was a lot of chanting. Candles. Pretty much what you’d expect if you researched ghost hunting on Wikipedia. Which is perhaps where he learned ‘the ancient craft of his ancestors.’ ” Janie rolled her eyes. But then she cried out, “Oh! Sadly, the secret room no longer qualifies as secret.”

“Why not?”

“That was the one kind of creepy moment—the last ritual or whatever. Mr. Leonardo said that we needed to open every door in the house. Like basement, attic, kitchen cupboards, the medicine cabinet—he said that the spirit world needed to flow through unobstructed.”

“That’s a lot of doors.”

“I know, right?” Janie kicked at the chain link. “But that’s why it freaked me out a little. Really it was the only time I felt actually scared. Because Mr. Leonardo wouldn’t go forward with the ceremony. He kept repeating, A door remains closed. A door remains closed. Lucy ran around the whole house checking and then finally I opened up the bookshelf. Mostly because I just wanted the chanting to stop.”

“What did he say? What did your parents say?”

Janie grimaced. “He just nodded. My parents said we’d talk about it later. But that was it. That was holding the whole ceremony up. Somehow Mr. Leonardo knew about the hidden room. Or else the spirits did.”

“No way,” I said firmly. “That guy earns his living with this routine. He must have noticed your eyes glancing at the bookshelf a bunch. Or he’s spent so much time in these old houses that he knows just what to look for.”

“The house feels kind of different. Tranquil, kind of.”

“Power of suggestion. Besides if I were a trapped spirit, I’d hang out in your room.”

Janie laughed. “Shut up!”

“I would. Or Lucy’s room. Seriously, we’re talking about ancient spirits. They deserve the best. If I were a poltergeist, I would demand Pottery Barn furniture. I’d stretch out on one of Lucy’s plush, white beanbags and pretend it was spirit spa day.”

Janie’s laughter trailed off into a sigh. “When is life going to get less bizarre?”

“I’m sorry your parents didn’t tell you. This is just what Michigan is like.” We stood up. “Let’s go back to my relatively modest and happily unhaunted house.”

But Janie said, “I need to check on Ben. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” But I had hesitated a little bit too long before answering. Janie didn’t say anything but I saw her notice.

We walked for a full block before she said anything else. “Things are better between my parents.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They just go through these cycles. Like one minute they’re falling all over each other and leaving for weekend getaways. And the next minute they’re barely speaking.”

“Yeah.”

“They’ve been together for like twenty years. Clearly they’ve figured out something. I think my dad goes cold sometimes. He gets caught up in work. Then my mom acts up, like a little kid. She just wants attention.”

“Right.”

“That’s all Ned McGovern offered her—a little attention. I don’t think she actually went through with it. You know, cheating.”

No question I considered Janie my best friend, but that didn’t mean I felt comfortable speculating on her mom’s love life. So we let the matter drop.

Once we reached the Donahue house, we heard incessant tapping. Inside, we found Ben kneeling in the not-so-secret room, with a screwdriver in one hand and small hammer in the other. Every book on the shelves had been removed and sat in stacks beside the opened doors.

“Hey, Ben,” Janie said.

“Yup.” He kept tapping, listening carefully as if he waited for someone to tap back.

“Morse code?” I asked.

“Trying to find hollow spots.” Ben kept tapping.

Janie ventured as carefully as I had. “Well, Liv and I did that. We searched through the entire house. That’s how we found the secret room.” Ben looked up blankly. Janie spelled it out. “The secret room is the hollow spot.”

“You’re adorable.” Ben smiled up at both of us. “The two of you, with your Nancy Drew ponytails—you think this is the only hidden room in this house of halfway horrors.” Janie’s look of shock mirrored my own. “I’ve found compartments all over—closets behind closets, passages down to the basement. Wait until I show you the wine cellar.”

“How long have you known about all this?” Janie demanded.

“For a while,” I answered for Ben. Because I understood then why he let us keep the secret bookcase room to ourselves. He had plenty of other hidden places to explore. And besides, it kept us distracted. We wouldn’t snoop around the rest of the house anymore. We’d found one passage and thought we found everything.

“Oh, come on. You cannot possibly be angry about this. You waited for the professional ghostbuster to demand access before you clued in the rest of the family about the trick bookcase.”

Janie whirled her head around in disbelief. “But you didn’t. You just said there are other secret doors but you didn’t open them for Mr. Leonardo.”

“I did not,” Ben admitted. “Mr. Leonardo was a flake.” He stood up and stashed the screwdriver and hammer in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Let’s go. I’ll give you the tour the real estate agent should have given us. We’ll start at the attic and work our way down.”

We climbed the narrow back staircase. At first, Janie dismissed him. “I know about the passage from my bedroom to the attic. That’s why I chose my bedroom.”

“Well then, I regret to inform you that every single bedroom has access to the attic. But you just keep feeling special.” Ben moved expertly through the attic, unfastening latches and turning rusted knobs. All in all, he showed us six different doorways. It was like one of those calendars at Christmastime—a surprise behind each wooden door.

Janie and I spent half the time grumbling at each other. We’d thought we’d searched the house so thoroughly.

“Why would anyone build a house like this?” I wondered aloud, honestly hesitant to hear the answer.

Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. None of the scenarios are particularly reassuring, right? You wanted to check up on your sleeping family. Maybe everybody snuck upstairs to participate in secret attic rituals?”

Janie looked around the attic with new eyes. “Miss Abbot claims the Langsoms moved liquor during Prohibition, that they built the passages for smuggling. But I always thought bootlegging was more for mobsters than community pillars like the Langsoms. Maybe this was where they planned to hide when their covers were blown? Or when their enemies attacked the house?”

Ben snapped his fingers and pointed at his sister. “And Lucy thinks she’s the smartest!” He crossed to a cupboard built into the northern wall. “Get a load of this.” He unlatched the cupboard and twisted the handle clockwise. Violet satin fully lined the cupboard. Rows of leather bands dangled inside.

“It’s empty?” Janie said.

“It’s empty now, but look at the indentations.” Janie and I peered inside but Ben didn’t wait for us to identify them. “Guns. Knives. Someone kept his weapons cache here. We bought a house with a weapons cache.”

Janie traced her finger along the gleaming satin. “We bought a house with an empty cupboard. Someone took his weapons with him.”

“Okay, yes,” Ben conceded. “I just think it’s worth noting that this person is heavily armed.”

“With antiques.”

“Antique weapons are still weapons. Provided they still function.” Ben held up a finger. “There’s more.” He crouched down to show us a wooden box positioned beneath the round window at the back of the house. The box looked battered and scarred and was about the height of a small stool. You could rest your knee on it to peer out the window. Through the glass you could see the lush lawn of the Donahues’ backyard, the bramble hedges separating their property from the Redmonds’ behind it.

“Check it out.” Ben swung open the chest’s lid and started reeling out a strand of weathered board and heavy metal chains. They clanked on the floor.

“Shackles?” I felt queasy, imagining someone chained up in the attic, at the mercy of whoever owned those weapons.

“Nope.” Ben spread out the wood and chains in order to display the full length of the ladder. It too was a built-in feature, bolted to the attic floor. “Escape plan!”

“Does it reach all the way down?” Janie asked.

“I guess it would get you near enough. I haven’t tried it out yet,” Ben admitted, like that counted as a failure on his part.

“Well, don’t, okay? That’s an old chain.” Janie weighed one of the links in her hand. “Who were these people?”

“Mobsters makes sense. Maybe they just got so caught up in keeping the secret, the secret took over.” He grinned ruefully. “I’d say we should ask Thatcher but, awkwardly enough, we’re suing him.” He folded the ladder neatly back into its chest. “That pretty much takes care of the attic. Now, ladies, if you will please accompany me downstairs to the wine cellar.” Ben bowed with a flourish and led us down the worn stairs from the attic, then the carpeted stairs to the main floor. Finally he stopped outside a scarred, chestnut-colored door to the basement.

“We’re not supposed to go down there,” Janie muttered.

Ben grinned. “See? That’s why you only discovered the bookshelf. You obey too much. Access your inner gangster.” He leaned one shoulder against the door and explained to me, “This door sticks, so our mom is convinced we’ll end up sealed in or something.” Ben strained against the wood but it didn’t budge. He stepped forward, threw his shoulder hard, and almost tumbled down the cement steps.

“Or broken at the bottom of the stairs,” Janie added. She reached past me to flick on the light switch. The basement didn’t necessarily look less spooky with the lights on—instead the creep factor was simply illuminated. Gray steps splattered with white drippings spiraled down and the wood paneling featured a collection of old brooms and mops hung from nails. As we descended, the air grew danker. It smelled like wet towels and vinegar. Some of the bricks in the walls had crumbled and some were missing altogether, leaving dark hollows punctuating the peeling paint.

White sheets shrouded several large pieces of furniture. I moved cautiously past them, in case they might spring to life.

“So it’s mostly storage down here?” I said, my voice echoing through the underground chamber.

“Yes. Primarily dead bodies.” Ben kept his tone matter-of-fact, chucking me lightly on the back as we walked. “Oh come on. It’s just a basement. At least wait until I show you the best part before you go freaking out all over the place.”

“When did you find all of this?” Janie asked him.

“On all those afternoons I spent by myself while you were out adjusting better to the move.”

I pointed to a pile of metal apparatus in the corner. “What’s that?”

“Farm implements? Possibly animal extermination tools. Interrogation devices.”

“So something terrifying and possibly destructive?”

“Exactly.”

“Could you imagine if you did get stuck down here?” My voice sounded as if I was shouting down a long tunnel.

“But that’s the best part,” Ben said. “We actually can’t.” With that, he crossed the room and yanked on the handle of an ancient-looking refrigerator. It was the white kind, with curved edges. It stood on metal legs so that there was a wide gap between the floor and the appliance.

Next to the fridge, someone had drilled a circular hook into the wall and a worn rope hung there, slightly fraying at the end. Expertly, Ben tied that rope to the handle of the open refrigerator door and then stepped back. “Ladies first,” he insisted.

Janie and I leaned forward. Instead of an iced-over plastic interior, we saw a passageway. The refrigerator, while flush against the wall, had no back. “Holy smokes,” I breathed and looked back at Ben. “How did you find this?”

“I wish I could claim it was more complicated than simply opening the door.” He shrugged. “I’d been hoping for old beer.” Then he nodded toward the fridge. “Go on.”

For a short second, I remembered how barely a week before, Janie had half convinced me that Ben had written the Sentry’s letters. How she had described him as disturbed and angry and hateful. If he was the Sentry, the passage could lead anywhere. Or, more likely, nowhere. Maybe Ben would untie the rope as quickly as he’d knotted it and slam the door. Janie and I would find ourselves locked in some musty cavity carved into the Donahues’ basement.

I felt along the refrigerator’s sides and pushed. “Oh no—it won’t budge.” Ben said it like that was a good thing. “Someone bolted it to the floor. It’s a pretty solidly engineered situation, not unlike the passage built into the fireplace in the classic adventure film The Goonies.” He stepped forward and held out his hand like he was a Victorian gentleman helping me into a carriage.

The notion that I might have risked being buried alive for the chance to place my hand in Ben Donahue’s hand for a moment is not entirely unfounded. His hand was soft and warm and boosted me a bit as I stepped up. With his other hand, he grazed the top of my ponytail. “Watch your head.” If I were a Victorian lady, I might have swooned.

Instead I coughed a little. While it wasn’t turned on, the refrigerator still smelled like the inside of a Carvel ice cream parlor. “There’s a little flashlight straight ahead of you. To your right.” Ben sounded farther away than he could logically be. I reached forward and felt around in the darkness before me. The sides and floor of the burrow were covered in grit.

Janie murmured behind me, “You good, Liv?” And in response, I turned on the tiny flashlight. A thin column of light wavered in the dark.

“Keep going?” I asked her, half hoping that she would tell me to hold up.

Behind Janie, Ben said, “Be careful of the pipes above us. You don’t want to smack your head. Don’t worry! Just keep moving forward. I’ve done it a bunch of times.”

“I’m sorry my brother is so weird,” Janie muttered behind me. “I’m sorry my house is so haunted.” Gradually, the cramped passage gave way to a wider tunnel with more room above us. I felt above my head before I slightly straightened up.

“Okay. Now point the flashlight down and you’ll find a larger one right next to your foot,” Ben directed. I kicked the metal Maglite almost immediately.

“Why not just start with the larger flashlight, Ben?” Janie asked. “You make everything so complicated.”

“Don’t question my system.” As I closed my hands around the flashlight, it occurred to me that Ben had gone on this whole other adventure this summer, finding weapon trunks and rusty ladders and secret passages. I thought back to sneaking out and to playing catch in the dark, long past curfew. He was my best summer secret. But this was his.

I made sure my expression didn’t look hurt before I flicked on the flashlight. It wouldn’t have, though; as soon as the light hit the walls a look of wonder must have washed over my face. The room was a round dome, built from stones lined with wooden crates. A few pipes ran overhead and down into the entrance through which we had crawled.

“Welcome to the wine cellar!” Ben announced triumphantly.

“Where’s the wine, though?” Janie asked, sort of hopefully.

“Gone.” Ben held up a finger. “But … not for long.” He reached out to run his index finger along one of the shelves and then showed it to us. “See? No dust. Someone’s been in here pretty recently.”

I nodded toward the passage exiting the round room. “Where does that lead?”

“It comes out right by the shed. Wooden trapdoor.”

“Does it lock?” Janie’s voice rose. “Can anyone just enter our house through the basement?”

“I don’t think so. That fridge doesn’t have a safety mechanism—it’s too old. So you can’t open it from the inside. You’d have to come down to the basement and set it up ahead of time, by tying the door open. We can go out if you want—” Janie and I both shook our heads. “It feels much farther than it actually is. We only crawled a few feet.”

“Is this how you’ve been sneaking out?” Janie asked. I looked away.

“Not really,” Ben non-answered. Apparently the secret-sharing portion of the afternoon had drawn to a close. Or maybe not. Because Ben said then, “Let’s go back through to the main house and I’ll show you the trapdoors in the bedrooms.” We moved faster heading back, leaving behind the flashlights in their proper positions.

“How can there possibly be more?” Janie asked.

Ben grinned at us. “The passages go everywhere. There’s a stairway behind the pantry that goes up to Mom’s gift-wrapping room. That makes sense though, because that room is so small. It was probably the maid’s quarters.”

“Your mom has a room specifically devoted to gift-wrapping?”

Janie rolled her eyes. “She calls it the craft room.”

“In her defense, there’s no shortage of rooms,” Ben pointed out. “And it’s the tiniest one.” He showed us the little door, which looked like a fireplace that had been filled in. You’d need to walk sideways through the stairwell and duck your head and tuck your shoulders to get inside.

I peered into the darkness. “We know the Langsoms are clearly not claustrophobic.”

“I think most recently it was kids who made use of these little hiding places. There’s another space under the window seat in the living room. But I keep finding Boy Scout stuff.”

Janie and I looked at each other. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like relics. Pamphlets and badges. A sketchbook. I found a couple of old flashlights and a bandanna.”

“We found a book too—a scouting manual,” Janie confessed.

“And a sleeping bag,” I added. “A really old one.”

“So same kid, right?” Ben asked excitedly. “Or kids. Maybe a little troop of creepy scouts. What did the book say?”

I exchanged another look with Janie and felt my cheeks burn. It sounded so obvious when he asked. Of course we should have read it.

“I can’t believe you two. Go get it.”

Janie jutted out her chin. “No way. Where’s your stash of Boy Scout artifacts?”

“Hidden. And I will go get them as soon as you let me have a look at that manual.”

I held up both hands. “You two make me relieved to be an only child. Janie, go get the book and the sleeping bag. Ben, go grab your stuff—all of it. We’ll meet back here, in the gift-wrapping room.” I gazed around. “It’s neutral territory.”

“It’s really called the craft room,” Janie mumbled as she headed out the door, with Ben smirking behind her.

When we reconvened in ten minutes, the siblings had relented. They unpacked their treasures sheepishly, sneaking peeks at each other’s collections. The small room quickly transformed. It smelled musty. Dusty articles covered Mrs. Donahue’s pristine table. It looked like a History of Scouting exhibit at a museum no one would ever choose to visit. Except maybe Ben, who gazed at each treasure almost lovingly. “You guys don’t think this is so cool?”

I’d started to accept that I would never understand him. I could not think of a single other thing that Ben found particularly cool or compelling. Possibly the old transistor radio that the other girl carried around. His baseball glove. But he was totally enraptured by vintage Boy Scout memorabilia.

“It’s interesting and all, but it doesn’t tell us much.” Janie examined all the pieces. She turned each item over in her hands and then passed it to me. I made a show of looking closely and then handed it to Ben, who caressed it, sniffed it. I half expected him to tear out a page of the manual and eat it.

“TM,” he announced, pointing at two haphazardly drawn letters in the corner of the back cover. “That’s our guy.”

“No L for Langsom,” I said and we all stared at the letters as if they might unlock some code.

“It’s the same handwriting as in the sketchbook.” Ben sounded more definite than I felt. “The drawings are sad.” He flipped pages, explaining, “I don’t mean unskilled—but they always just have this one figure—in a tent, in a house. Under a tree.” Ben pointed out all the illustrations. “But there’s only that one figure over and over—isn’t that weird?”

“Well, he’s documenting his own adventures,” I offered, feeling defensive of TM and his singular figures.

“Yeah, but it’s just him. No troop. No buddies. And look at the faces—half the faces don’t even have a mouth. Most kids draw smiles. That’s basic little kid technique.” Ben ruffled Janie’s hair. “You drew everyone: Mom, Dad, Lucy, me. I mean, even trees had smiley faces.”

Janie studied the drawings. “Maybe TM didn’t have many reasons to smile.” Ben and I stared at her. Her voice was soft and a little spooky, as if she saw into a window invisible to us. “I mean, he obviously hid in the secret rooms. But I wonder why.” She patted the sleeping bag and a cloud of dust rose up like a puff of smoke. “We need to know how many children the Langsoms had back then.”

“Again. Not sure it’s the best idea to contact the Langsoms right now,” Ben reminded her.

“So we have to ask someone else who has long-established roots in the neighborhood.”

Janie stared at me with an unspoken request. I floundered, “I mean, I can ask my parents, but it’s doubtful—”

“Not your parents. No offense, Liv. But we need someone with a bit more expertise.” She raised her eyebrows as if waiting for a name to dawn on me. “A local source of wisdom. A loyal customer of candy fund-raisers …”

“No, not Miss Abb—”

“Let’s go pay a visit to Miss Abbot.”

Janie talked Ben into staying home. “Better if it’s just us girls,” she said.

When we stood on the stoop of the little yellow house, I could feel the reassurance of his eyes on us. “We really have to do this?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” Janie responded. “This is going to be so much fun.” She punctuated her statement by reaching out and ringing the bell.

“Girls. Olivia and Jane Louise. My goodness. To what do I owe the honor?” Miss Abbot looked absolutely gleeful to see us, which didn’t necessarily calm me. I was sure the witch had welcomed Hansel and Gretel enthusiastically too.

I held up a handful of packaged candy like I was trick-or-treating in reverse. But before I could recite, We wondered if you might continue your support of the Glennon Heights Athletic Association, Janie cut me off. “Oh, Livvie—let’s not use the old selling candy door-to-door ruse.” My mouth opened and closed, speechless. “Miss Abbot’s too quick for that. I’m so sorry, Miss Abbot, but we could really use your help.”

“Why, girls!” Miss Abbot exclaimed, looking as surprised as I at Janie’s confession. She blocked Horatio, the cat, from escaping with one dainty, sandaled foot.

“You see, Olivia and I—we’ve been playing a fair bit of detective. You know—like in Nancy Drew?” I wished that Ben could see Janie work her magic. He would have been either proud or horrified. “We’re really trying to get to the bottom of those letters.”

Miss Abbot nodded her head thoughtfully and led us into her living room. “Yes. I see the efforts your whole family has been making—what with the publicity and the ghost chaser on a Saturday morning. It would be difficult not to notice, dear.” Miss Abbot spoke with the sweetness of arsenic dusting her words.

“I really love this town.” Janie covered her face with her hands. When she lowered them, her eyes were miraculously damp with tears. “But these letters are tearing my family apart. Olivia will tell you—my parents barely speak to each other these days. My sister just locks herself in her room with her homework. And my brother … Well, I worry about him most of all. He has a bit of a rebellious streak, you know.”

“Most teenage boys do.” Miss Abbot patted Janie’s hand indulgently. “Maybe the move has turned out to be the wrong choice for your family.” Miss Abbot smiled but her eyes narrowed, measuring Janie’s reaction. “For more than one family, in fact.”

Janie looked up with hard eyes. “Well, my family is here now. Not much anyone can do to rewrite history. It might help to know more of the local stories, though—specifically about the house itself. My father has behaved irrationally, but we all found those letters so disturbing …” She trailed off and then perked up, as if just remembering. “The last time Liv and I dropped by, you mentioned the magical Halloween celebrations the Langsoms once hosted. That must have been so wonderful for the children. How many sons and daughters did they have? Do you recall?”

Miss Abbot looked up, remembering. “Let’s see—most recently there were three Langsom sons. I believe the youngest, Thatcher, attends school with you. According to the papers, he is quite an athlete.”

“Yes.” Janie practically bounced out of her chair with impatience. I nudged her knee with my own.

“That’s right. I know the Langsom brothers. And Mrs. Langsom always made the best treats for us kids around holidays. Jane and I are more curious about maybe when Dr. Langsom was a boy—did he have siblings?”

“Yes. The Langsoms have always had large families. I was surprised when Hunter and Helena stopped at the three to speak completely out of turn. But sleuths like us cannot just go on minding our business can we? What fun is that?” Miss Abbot giggled. “I remember telling her, ‘Helena, it seems to me you have more rooms to fill.’ But you know how these modern women are. You just rarely see big families anymore. Such a shame. I love to see a full pew at church.”

“Right. So Dr. Langsom had lots of brothers and sisters?” I prodded.

“Oh yes. There was he but also William and Thomas and Phillip and Matthew. The baby of the family—Margaret—was the only girl. Her brothers doted on her. That’s probably why she was such a handful. But you know she was very close to the VonHolt girl. And when that terrible business happened, well, it was as if it just extinguished Margaret’s inner light. It left us missing her troublemaking ways.”

“Wow. You mean the murders.”

Miss Abbot blinked. “Yes.” She looked at the clock. I cringed—I was so clumsy with people. We were losing her.

Janie stepped in. “What about other kids? When we first saw the house, it was a dream come true. And I have to admit I imagined moving here would go differently. It’s been harder than I expected to make friends.” Janie’s voice trembled ever so slightly. I recognized the theatrics but also knew there was a kernel of truth to what she said. “I don’t get the sense it was ever like that for the Langsoms. Those kids had lots of friends, right? Kids over all the time? I bet the dad coached Little League or led a scout troop. And Mrs. Langsom was class mom every year. Was it like that back then too?”

“Even more so when Dr. Langsom was a boy. You know we used to value different forms of expertise. We wanted children to feel prepared for the world. I don’t see those same skills—mostly you all navigate screens. Not forests.” She stopped herself from speaking. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Janie smiled and I did too. “I’ve never even been camping,” Janie confided.

“Well, back then the township youth camped right in your own backyard! I kid you not, girls. They pitched tents and built fires. Mostly boys.”

“Anyone you remember in particular?” Janie pressed. I held my breath, waiting.

“Why would I remember anyone in particular?”

“Oh, it was a long shot. I just thought … We’ve already said what a wonderful family the Langsoms are—for generations. My dad says that the easiest explanation for the letters is that they wrote them, but I don’t believe that. Thatcher has been so kind to us. I just thought maybe if you remember other people who spent a lot of time at the house …”

“Well, they were scouts of some kind. I remember one year they did some yard work for me, to earn merit badges and such. Frankly they made a mess of my garden and I had to hire a man to come fix it, so I didn’t allow them to come back. But I appreciated the spirit.”

“Wow. I wonder if there are photos somewhere. Or a troop roster.” Janie leaned forward. “I’d love to show that stuff to my brother, Ben; maybe it would inspire him to camp or learn other life skills like that. He’s actually very good at yard work.”

Across the street, Ben probably watched the yellow house, completely unaware that his sister was dangling him as a bribe in front of Miss Abbot and her geraniums.

Miss Abbot pondered the possibilities for a moment. “There must be photos. So many boys joined at some point or the other—it was a real source of town pride. Maybe the library?” She crossed her legs at the ankles and sat up straighter. “I would check there. Perhaps he will rekindle some interest in those endeavors. That would be lovely for the town—much more productive than video games and coffee. The amount of teenagers I see lining up at that coffee shop weekday afternoons … It will stunt your growth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we answered automatically.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” Miss Abbot said as she stood up. “But I always appreciate a good mystery. Do stop by with updates. And you know, even if you’re not raising funds, I am quite fond of chocolate.”

“Of course,” Janie answered, beaming. As we stepped outside, the door thudded shut behind us. Had Miss Abbot not said goodbye so sweetly, I might have thought she had slammed it.

“We should have brought M&M’s,” Janie muttered.

“You don’t think that went well.”

“She was holding back. She’s protecting someone.”

“Well, we know there was a troop and that they camped in the yard. We know about a link between Margaret Langsom and the VonHolt family.”

“Do you think that’s relevant?” Janie asked as we crossed the street.

“Maybe not relevant, but interesting. I think we got some good information.” It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the letters. I just needed a break. “Why don’t we go to Slave to the Grind?” I asked, almost afraid of how Janie would react. I tried joking, “We don’t have to tell Miss Abbot.”

“You want to question Thatcher? I don’t think we should try that at his place of work.”

“I don’t think we should question Thatcher at all. Maybe we could just go grab some coffee, you know, remind people …” I searched for the right words.

“That I’m human? That I’m not some monster just because my parents aren’t totally cool with imagining the blood of their children running down the walls? That this isn’t our fault and, in any other town, people would probably be dropping off casseroles or organizing night watches?” Janie’s voice kept rising.

“It’s easy for people to blame you because you’re new. If they have the chance to know you as a person, then they might feel differently.”

“Well, that’s messed up. Of course I’m a person. I’m not going to go sit in a coffee shop so that these idiots can discover that I am a person.”

“It’s just how small towns work,” I said. But that sounded hollow even to me. I tried again. “It will only last until they move on to the next mystery.”

“They won’t move on to the next mystery until we solve this one.” Janie reached out and grabbed my arm. “Also, you know what, Livvie? It’s scary. It’s scary to try to fall asleep there and remember those creepy notes. And no one has been able to stop them. Not my parents. Not the police. So actually I don’t really want people to move on.”

Her father would never let that happen anyway. I almost said it out loud. Glennon Heights might very well move on, but not until Mr. Donahue stopped calling news crews.

But then I thought about Margaret Langsom. She must have felt like the world went dark the morning they found her friend’s body. All those bodies. Janie and I stood outside 16 Olcott and it looked more menacing now, with its secret passages and weapons cupboard and escape hatch.

“Okay,” I said. “Then we should go to the library.”