Fine, thought Alex. Fine.

They could leave him alone, completely abandon him, if they wanted. Ren could go to a freaking gallery; Aditi could cut him out of her search. He’d done this before. He remembered the long spring days after he’d been pulled out of school. Sitting in his mom’s office while she worked and Ren was in school, picking at his homeschool work like eating cold oatmeal. And he remembered the days in the hospital before that, waiting for his mom. Or anyone. So many days alone, and always waiting for someone.

Not anymore, he told himself. Now it was his mom who was alone. Now she was waiting for him — at least he hoped and prayed that she was. He felt sure that she was alive. But how do I know? What if … Alex shook his head hard, and his fast walk turned into almost a jog.

Soon, the massive British Library loomed before him. He was stunned by its size, and a jolt of hope shot through him. Maybe the answers he needed were in there … He needed information on Egyptian Avenue. That seemed like a good place to start, but he knew what he was really looking for were potential Death Walkers: bad British dudes with some strong connection to Egypt …

Inside, the building was cool and clean and absolutely massive. Alex took a quick breath and got to it. It reminded him of the days he used to tag along with his mom to the main branch of the New York Public Library. This one was much larger and infinitely more British, but it contained the same mix of serious scholars, stressed students, gawking tourists, and the occasional crazy. Some books he could pluck from the shelves himself, and some he had to ask for.

An hour later, he was seated in a reading room on the third floor, in between the maps collection and Asian and African Studies. He had a heavy stack of old books on his desk and a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. He began with Highgate. He needed to figure out who was in that tomb: why the Walker had robbed it in the first place, and why he’d go back. His eyes glazed like doughnuts as he hit plenty of history in two newer books, but no mention of an unmarked vault. He skeptically picked up a very old, wafer-thin volume called A Stroll Down Egyptian Avenue.

The detailed description of the place sent a shiver through Alex. He remembered walking that same shadowy path — and what had waited at the end. And then: “As I walked on, I came upon the unnamed vault and spared a thought for the notorious archaeologist within …” Alex held his breath, but the book’s author spared only a thought, not a name.

An archaeologist, thought Alex. He glanced at the heavy stack of books in front of him, sighed, and went to get a whole new stack. He knew more or less what he was looking for: a “notorious” British archaeologist who’d died between 1839, when Highgate opened, and 1904, when the old book was written. He still wished his mom was there to ask all the right questions at the information desk. My mom, he thought, or Ren.