“Yeah, I understand.”

“And as you know,” Lon continued, “Dr. Spendlove can get the truth out of you whether you like it or not, so if I even think you’ve been using it for the wrong reason, like cheating on tests or getting some girl to kiss you—”

Jupe feigned offense, his mouth forming an O. What a liar. He’d definitely already thought about using his knack for that. He’d better not have tried.

“—I will take you in to see him and he’ll find out exactly how many times you’ve used your knack and why.”

Jupe stuck a long finger into his curls, slowly scratching the side of his head. “All right, I get it for chrissake. What I don’t get is why the two of you are doing all this. You aren’t cops,” he challenged.

Lon paused, staring at Jupe with fire in his eyes, then took a deep breath and answered in a calm voice. “You know the code? How we keep the demon talk quiet around savages?”

“Yeah.”

“This is an Earthbound matter,” Lon explained, then added, “Ambrose Dare is asking us to help.”

“Mr. Dare? Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa. And if you can’t handle it, then we’ll just go back to testing your knack with Dr. Spendlove’s ‘favorite color’ suggestion . . .”

“I can handle it!” Jupe insisted.

“And you can’t breathe a word of this to people at school. You’re going to want to brag—I know you. But you can’t. Not even to your best friends.”

“What about Mr. and Mrs. Holiday?”

Lon shook his head. “Only the three of us.” He pointed for emphasis—one, two, three. “This is serious family business.”

Us. Family. I was included. My mind raced back to the promises we’d made in the kitchen the other night and lumped it in with Jupe’s casual kiss on my forehead . . . and now this. Something fragile cracked inside me. My chest felt warm. I blinked away emotion as Lon’s eyes flicked to mine. Get it together, Bell.

“Can you promise me that you’ll keep quiet?”

“I promise.” Jupe held his head a little higher and added, “You can count on me.”

“I know I can.” Lon gave him a muted smile and squeezed his shoulder. And that was that.

We followed Lon to the back of the store. Cindy Brolin leaned behind the fish counter, hosing it down for the night. I puffed out my cheeks as we approached, trying to banish the stench. When she saw us, panic exploded over her face.

“Hello, Cindy,” I said, holding my hands up like she was some skittish pony that might bolt out of the pen. “We only want to talk again for just a minute. Real fast, promise.”

“I’m at work. I can’t talk.” With reddening cheeks and crazy eyes, she glanced around the area, maybe with hopes that her manager was somewhere nearby and could save her. The only person in sight was an old woman three aisles down pushing a cart filled with large multipacks of ramen noodles.

“Look, I’ll come clean. We aren’t really writing a historical book about La Sirena’s schools,” I said. “Surely you’ve heard there are now three kids missing.”

She stiffened. Water dripped from the nozzle of the hose she held in one hand.

“More children might be taken,” Lon said. “This is my kid here, and I don’t want him to be the next victim. The Snatcher took seven kids in the 1980s. We think you know something about it.”

“Why . . .” Her voice cracked. “Why would I know something about that?” Wisps of dyed red hair clung to the sweat on her forehead. She wiped the side of her face on her shoulder.

Lon nudged Jupe. I glanced around, ensuring that we were still alone, then looked at Jupe. Just like we rehearsed. Now or never, kid. You’re on. He took a deep breath, then balled up his hands into fists.

“Cindy,” he commanded with confidence over the fish counter, like he did this for a living. His eyes were slitted, and Dr. Spendlove was right: they were flicking back and forth. “You trust us. You want to tell us everything you remember about the Snatcher. You’re tired of keeping secrets and you want to be helpful. You aren’t afraid anymore.”

Cindy looked momentarily confused, just like the amusement park ride operator. Her face knotted up as if she might burst into tears. Then her shoulders sagged. She set the hose down and peeled off long black rubber gloves. “I don’t know if what I remember will help,” she said timidly. “I can take a short break, but let’s talk outside.”

We followed her down a tiled hallway past the swinging warehouse doors to a locked rear entrance. She entered a four-digit code and waited for the door to beep. It opened onto a deserted loading dock at the side of the parking deck. After a few steps, we huddled together under a covered walkway, next to an ashtray and a bench with peeling paint.

“So, what do you want to know?” she said, keeping her eyes on the cement as she fumbled around inside her Starry Market apron pocket for her cigarette case.

“Did the Snatcher take you?” I asked.

She took out a cigarette and paused, as if her brain was fighting Jupe’s persuasion. At length, she finally said, “Not exactly. I got away.”

I glanced at Lon. Bingo.

Cindy leaned against the bench. “I was fifteen at the time. My best friend had dropped me off at home. It was Friday, the day before Halloween. It wasn’t too late, maybe nine or ten, but I knew my parents were asleep. I hung around outside on our front porch to sneak a cigarette. Next thing I knew, someone was hauling me up into the air and over the railing. He was hiding in the bushes, I guess. Yanked me from behind.”