"I'm here with you, so what does that say?" Chambers shrugged. "And paying for college like it's some kind of penance."

"Did you know my father well?"

"As well as I knew any of them, I guess."

"Was he crazy?"

"Nah." Chambers shifted his gaze from Lucas to the middle-distance of Opus 6. "This all probably kept him sane."

The whole place was, on the one hand, extremely disturbing. Because what kind of crazed person would do all that? But there was something . . . calming about it, too.

"Are you going to charge me?"

"Waiting for the autopsy report," Chambers said. Then he turned and said, "You'll let me know if you think of anything? The tattoo?"

Lucas nodded and Chambers left. Lucas went inside and watched from the kitchen window until the forensic team also left, then he went back out to explore parts of the grounds he hadn't walked yet. The map of Opus 6 on the kitchen wall showed a large stone at the highest point, and Lucas imagined that was meant to be the final piece put into place-whether as a gravestone or something else. Now that top swirl of stones seemed to look particularly . . . empty.

He wondered whether the final stone was here somewhere, waiting.

Walking across a plain of stones down by a shaded area at the back of the lot, flattened and arranged just so, Lucas came to a bridge-one large, flat stone-over a pa.s.sageway. Looking down before crossing, he felt a sort of vertigo-different from the carousel spins. Which maybe made sense, considering how his father had died, but was there something more to it?

Something wrong in his brain?

Something that would never heal?

Everything was too quiet.

He half missed the news vans.

Half wanted reporters to ask him questions that would maybe inspire answers.

He'd show them the tattoo, see if it led to anything. Since it was no longer a secret anyway.

Had it been forced on him? Or on all of them?

Had he done it himself ?

Which was worse?

At the end of his tour-having given up on finding the centerpiece stone-he ducked through a long, deep tunnel, came out the other end, and saw something shining past a cl.u.s.ter of thirsty bushes. Pushing through some brush, he spotted a shabby, old RV with a ray of sun reflecting off the side-view mirror. It didn't appear at all road-ready.

Did someone live there?

He turned to head back toward the house to ask Ryan about it, whether it was even theirs, and to eat something before the playground meet-up, but his brother was right there.

Lucas nodded toward the RV. "What's that?"

"Come on." Ryan wagged a key in the air. "I'll show you."

AVERY.

She texted Sam when she got out of the pool- Can you come get me?

Crazy stuff happening -then got dressed and waited on the front steps.

When he pulled up, she got in and said, "Just drive."

They ended up at Lakes Park-about twenty minutes inland. She and Sam had rented a bicycle for two on their first date here. Had even ridden the tiny train that ran around the grounds, through little villages made out of dollhouses and miniature oddities. They'd spent hours making out in the far corners of the parking lot, too, a few times since.

Not in a while, though.

They walked out to a picnic table on a bridge over the lake. A large white bird took off from a small island as Avery sat down.

Was Sam remembering, too? That first date? How fun everything had seemed at least for a little while?

Back before she started feeling like he was maybe not as cute as she'd originally thought. Or smart enough to be with her, either.

Being with him had started to turn her into this nasty, petty person.

"Everything okay?" He sat across from her.

"No, Sam, everything is not okay."

See?

"You know what I mean." He stared at her.

"What do you mean?" He was already annoying her. Being with the wrong person made you not right in the head.

"I mean, tell me what's going on."

"Well, I'll probably be on the news any minute now."

"What did you do?"

"I talked to one of them. Ryan's brother. He remembers a carousel. So I went on camera and said that if he can remember one thing, he can remember more. Right?"

"I don't know, Avery. I guess, yeah."

Sam was a really good guy. She reminded herself of that a lot, too. He was actually too nice for her.

He said, "I think maybe you should let the police handle it, you know?"

"I'm supposed to sit around and do nothing?" she said. "I'm sorry but if you don't understand why I have to find him, then maybe we shouldn't-"

"He's probably dead, Ave."

She felt like she'd been slapped. She must have looked like it, too. Who did he think he was? He knew nothing about anything. Nothing about what it felt like when your life was headline news.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but someone had to say it. Everyone is saying it."

"I'm not an idiot, Sam."

He shoved his hands into his shorts pockets; he was straddling the bench of the table, like he was ready to walk away at any moment.

"What else are people saying?" Avery asked. "Since everyone knows so much more about it than I do."

"I don't know. Just . . . stuff."

"What stuff ?" She was losing patience.

"See, I don't even know if I can say it without you freaking out."

"Just say it."

"It's that maybe they're terrorists. Maybe they've been brainwashed into some kind of suicide mission or something." He seemed almost excited by the idea of it.

"Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?" she asked. Because hiding the truth about some possible wrongdoing-something involving Max-and becoming terrorists were completely different things.

Weren't they?

Sam shrugged. "I'm saying you shouldn't trust them."

"I never said I did! I went on camera to say that!"

"Are you enjoying all this?" Sam tilted his head. "The attention?"

Avery breathed hard. She was about to end it-because it was over-but if she cut Sam out of the picture, who did she have?

Was she enjoying it?

That would be messed up.

"I'm not enjoying it at all. I'm a mess." She started crying and he reached across the table and took her hand. She said, "How could you even say that?

He said "I'm sorry" and got up and came around to her side and pulled her up and kissed her. She let him because she wanted to feel something a normal teenager should be feeling. Something giddy like l.u.s.t or a crush. Or something sad but typical like heartbreak. A feeling that had pop songs written about it, so you could play them on repeat and deal and move on.

No such luck.

There was no sidestepping this, no way out but through.

"Who's saying all that terrorist stuff, anyway?" she asked then.

Even if that theory was nonsense, there must be people out there with information. People who'd seen them?

"It doesn't matter," Sam said.

"Well, do they have any ideas about what the supposed target will be?" How do you get information out of people?

"I don't know. Mall? School? Playground?"

She almost laughed. "You think someone would do all this? Go to this length? Eleven years in the planning. To blow up a playground?"

Money was how you got people to talk.

She'd break up with him after this whole thing was over.

In the meantime, she'd talk to her dad about posting a reward for information leading to Max.

A big one.

Scarlett

Steve hadn't let up all afternoon. He wanted dinner tonight.

If a 4:30 early-bird special qualified as "tonight."

"And there he is," Tamara said, as they entered the main dining room.

A salad bar stabbed full of long silver spoons ran down one side of the room. Windows facing the beach down the other.

Only one news van had followed them from the medical office to the outlets, then the phone store and home (so her mother could change) and here; it had been stopped from entering the restaurant parking lot by a burly valet.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." Steve stood, came out from behind the table, embraced Tamara, then turned to Scarlett. "And you. It's a pleasure." He held out his hand to shake.

Scarlett took it, shook.

He was fit, compact, with a balding head and a small graying mustache, neatly trimmed. His eyes were borderline feminine-with thick lashes. He wore a necklace of twisted gold that peeked out at the neckline of a cream b.u.t.ton-down shirt that was tucked into belted jeans.

"I have to say." Steve was shaking his head. "Let's just say I sure am happy to meet you." He looked at Tamara. "This woman is one tough cookie, right? She's been through a lot."

"Yes," Scarlett said. "She is. She has."