Trevor knew the man had only glimpsed him as a freckly redhead in the dark. There was no chance of his being recognized—Trevor was even wearing different shoes than he had worn that night. He knew that only by acting suspicious could he possibly earn any serious attention from the man.

And yet Trevor could not resist spying.

He dawdled at a rack of packaged fruit pies, brand name and generic, pretending to be torn on which to choose, handling a blackberry pie, then a vanilla pudding pie, then apple, then blackberry again. He stole glances through the rack at the profile of the man reading the newspaper on the bench.

The man was indeed reading the paper—in fact, he would occasionally take out a pen to circle or underline an item of interest. But he was also spending a lot of time studying the passersby.

From his position near the entrance the man could watch people as they came and went, as they waited in line with their purchases, and as they roamed the store. The man hardly moved his head, but his eyes were in constant motion, never lingering on anything: the page he was reading, the woman in the red coat, the young man stocking the sunflower seeds, the page he was reading, the little boy whining about wanting a doughnut, the page he was reading, the old guy in the outdated jogging suit, the young couple near the register, the page he was reading, and so on.

The man was looking for something.

Trevor felt an unsettling certainty that the man was looking for him.

He realized how lucky he was that, so far, the man had not appeared to notice him peeking through the packaged fruit pie rack. Had they made eye contact, Trevor was certain the man would have become suspicious.

Trevor chose the blackberry fruit pie and rejoined his mother. He managed to avoid looking in the direction of the man the rest of the time his mother shopped. He did not look at the man while he waited beside his mom in line, or while she paid for the groceries and his fruit pie.

But, unable to resist, on his way out the door, Trevor glanced over at the man on the bench and found the man staring at him. The man’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. And then Trevor was out the door, helping his mom load bags from the undersized cart into the trunk of their car.

He did not look back at the store.

Deep down, he knew the man was still watching.

*****

Pigeon went through the sliding glass door into his backyard. His dog, Diego, a black Labrador, padded over to him. Pigeon crouched and petted the dog’s sleek coat for a moment before jogging around to the side of the house and wheeling his bike through the gate into the front yard. He normally stored his bike in the garage, but had figured that exiting through the side gate would be quieter.

Not that subtlety mattered. His mom was a different person. She no longer asked how his day went. She no longer double-checked the clothes he selected in the morning. She paid no attention to what he ate, when he did his homework, or whether he brushed his teeth before bed. And she had not asked for the change from the white fudge, so he had kept the extra seventy-nine cents.

His dad had always been low-key, letting Mom fuss over the details. If anything, he was mellower now. Pigeon probably could have driven away in the family minivan and nobody would have noticed or cared.

Pigeon pedaled down Monroe Circle to the creek and found the others waiting on the jogging path astride their bikes. “Everybody made it,” Trevor said. “Good job.”

“You all have your candy?” Nate asked.

The others nodded.

Summer adjusted her backpack. “Did you get the Forty-niner to the graveyard?”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “I stuck the Forty-niner in the trunk of our rental car, then told my mom I was supposed to find the grave of Hanaver Mills as part of a homework assignment.”

“Rental car?” Trevor said. “That’s right. They never found your Explorer, did they?”

“Nope. At least it was insured. Anyhow, my mom bought the story and drove me to the cemetery this afternoon. A lady on duty knew right where the grave was, not far from one of the little roads that wind around in there. Hanaver has a big gravestone.”

“What did you do with the miner?” Pigeon asked.

“I popped the trunk, unwrapped the Forty-niner, and set him behind Hanaver’s gravestone. I did it right in front of my mom and she didn’t even pay attention, no questions, nothing. That guy is heavy to carry by yourself—I couldn’t have gone far. It didn’t look too odd sitting there; I mean, people sometimes leave weird things at graves, not just flowers. It’s a safe bet that nobody will have messed with it by tonight.”

“I hope you’re right,” Summer said.

“You know we aren’t actually going to Hanaver’s grave,” Trevor said.

“Right, but Mrs. White said Margaret Spencer was buried near Hanaver Mills.”

“Let’s get going,” Summer said, starting down the jogging path, heading the opposite direction from Greenway. Pigeon enjoyed the wind in his face, riding through the darkness. Not many houses had lights on at this hour. The night was warm, the stars were bright, and the horizon was beginning to glow with the approach of moonrise.

The path dumped them off at a road called Mayflower Drive before continuing on the other side of the street. They abandoned the path and followed Mayflower for quite a distance. Pigeon’s legs began to burn with exertion, but the others seemed fine, so he kept his mouth shut.

Summer led them onto a road called Skyline Avenue that soon became steep. Pigeon was relieved when Trevor dismounted and started walking his bike up the slope. After taking his time up the hill, by the time they had crested the rise, Pigeon felt ready to ride again.

They turned down another street, Saddle Road, and the cemetery came into view. Pigeon had never visited the Colson Valley Cemetery. A chest-high wall made of stacked, interlocking stones surrounded the graveyard. The graves looked old. He could see a few large tombs, several tall obelisks, a couple of statues, lots of upright headstones, and many flat grave markers lying on the grass. The effect at night was intimidating. It was easy to imagine the place teeming with witches and ghosts.

Summer rode over to the wall and stopped. “The front gates will be closed, so we might as well hop the wall here. Help me with my bike.” Nate and Summer lifted her bike over the top of the wall. Trevor hopped the wall and lowered the bike to the grass on the far side. They passed all the bikes over the wall that way, and then Nate and Summer boosted themselves up and over.

Pigeon placed his palms on the top of the wall like the others had, but could not boost himself high enough to get the upper half of his body draped over the top. He couldn’t kick a leg high enough to hook his foot up there, either. He just kept hopping and panting and scratching up his forearms.