AS WE BECOME OLDER,

AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.

“Do you get it?” Ema asked.

The word shelter was all in caps. Why? Once again, I thought about my father. I thought about that retirement letter from the Abeona . . .

Shelter.

Coincidence?

I scanned the flashlight lower: HERE LIES E.S.

A CHILDHOOD LOST FOR CHILDREN

“ ‘A childhood lost for children,’” Ema read out loud. “What the heck does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s E.S.?”

I shook my head again. “Maybe it’s her dog or something.”

“A dog whose childhood was lost for children?”

Good point. She was right. That made no sense. I lowered the flashlight a little more, almost to the ground. And there in small print: A30432

I felt my blood go cold.

“How do I know that number?” Ema asked.

“The license plate of the black car.”

“Oh. Right.” Then she shook her head. “Why the heck is that here?”

I had no idea. “Maybe it’s a date,” I said.

“A date that starts with the letter A?”

“The numbers. Three could stand for March. Fourth day. Nineteen thirty-two.”

Ema frowned. “You think?”

In truth, no, I didn’t. I stood there baffled while Ema moved around the tombstone, using the light from her cell phone to see. The music still came from the house. It was past midnight.

What kind of old lady plays rock music after midnight?

One who still plays old vinyl records. One who keeps a weird tombstone in her wooded backyard. One who has strange visitors in a black car with a license plate number engraved on that same weird tombstone. One who told a teenage boy that his dead father was still alive.

“What’s this?” Ema asked.

I snapped back to the present. “What?”

“Behind here.” She was pointing to the back of the tombstone. “There’s something carved into the back.”

I walked over slowly, but I knew. I just knew. And when I reached the back of the tombstone and shined the light on it, I was barely surprised.

A butterfly with animal eyes on its wings.

Ema gasped. The music in the house stopped. Just like that. Like someone had flicked the off switch the moment my eyes found that dang symbol.

Ema looked up at my face and saw something troubling. “Mickey?”

Nope, there was no surprise. Not anymore. There was rage now. I wanted answers. I was going to get them, no matter what. I wasn’t going to wait for Mr. Shaved Head with the British accent to contact me. I wasn’t going to wait for Bat Lady to fly down and leave me another cryptic clue. Heck, I wasn’t even going to wait until tomorrow.

I was going to find out now.

“Mickey?”

“Go home, Ema.”

“What? You’re kidding, right?”

I turned and stormed my way back to the house. I pulled out my wallet and started searching for my thin card to open the lock again.

Behind me, Ema asked, “Where are you going?”

“Inside.”

“You can’t just . . . Mickey?”

I didn’t stop. Yes, I was going to break into this house again. I was going to poke around and search that basement—and if I had to climb those stairs and break into Bat Lady’s bedroom to get answers, well, I would do that too.

“Mickey, slow down.”

“I can’t.”

Ema grabbed hold of my arm. I turned. “Just take a breath, okay?”

I gently shook off her hold. “That butterfly or whatever the heck it is? It was on a photograph in Bat Lady’s house—a photograph that must have been forty or fifty years old. It was on a placard on my father’s grave. I’m not waiting, Ema. I need to get some answers now.”

I reached the back door and prepared my credit card. I tried to slide it in the crack, just like last time.

No go.

There was a new lock, new doorknob, and what looked like steel enforcements in the door. I looked back at Ema.

“That was fast,” she said. “Now what?”

“Now you leave,” I said.

She faked a yawn. “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

I shrugged. “Okay. You asked for it.”

When I knocked on the door, Ema actually gasped out loud and took two steps back.

There was no answer. I pressed my ear against the door and listened. No sound. I pounded harder. No answer. I pounded harder still, and now I added a shout.

“Hello? Bat Lady? Open up! Open up right now!”

Ema tried to stop me. “Mickey?”

I ignored her. I kicked the door. I hit it again with my fists. I didn’t care. Add all the steel enforcements you liked. I was getting inside and I was getting answers.

Then a giant beam of light hit me from the side.

I know beams don’t “hit” you, but that’s how it felt. The light was so sudden and bright that I actually jumped back, raising my arms like I was warding off an intruder. I heard a swoosh to my right and realized that Ema was running away.

A voice shouted, “Don’t move!”

I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do. I wondered if it was my guy with the shaved head, but no, there was no British accent. The light came closer. I heard footsteps behind it. There was more than one guy—maybe two or three.

“Uh, could you lower the beam?” I asked.

The light stayed right on my face, moving closer and closer. I shut my eyes. I wondered whether I should just run. I didn’t know who this was. I was fast. I could get away, right? But then I thought about Ema. If I ran, whoever this is might have heard her and take chase. They might catch her. This way, with him focusing solely on me, Ema would be safest.

“Don’t move,” he said again, only a few yards away now.

As he took another step, I heard the sound of a radio or walkie-talkie. There was static. Then two men talking. I heard more of the radios behind him. Another light shone on me.

“Well, well,” the voice said. “Look what we got here. Is this another attempted break-in, Mickey?”

I recognized the voice now. Police Chief Taylor. Troy’s father.

“I wasn’t breaking in,” I said. “I was knocking.”

“Sure you were. And what’s the card in your hand?”

Uh-oh.

Another cop came over to him. “Need help, Chief?”

“Oh, I think I got this one under control. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”