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the sheriff and stepped away. He spoke quietly into the phone. “I was asking about the family who lives there.”
    â€œWell, I thought . . . the house, the family—same thing, you know?” said the boy on the other end. “He said you offered . . . uh, money for information?”
    Behind him, the sheriff ’s footsteps crunched over gravel. He was walking back to the jailhouse.
    â€œHold on,” Taksidian said and lowered the phone. “Sheriff ?” When the man turned to him, he said, “Keep that man locked up.”
    Sheriff Bartlett squinted at him. He said, “Mr. Taksidian, I got my deputies heading over to the house right now. I don’t want anything to happen to those kids.” He paused. “You catch my drift?”
    Taksidian glared at him, then turned his back on the man. Into the phone, he said, “What do you know?”
    The boy said, “I know how you can get inside. I mean, secretly .”

CHAPTER
    seven
    T UESDAY, 8.55 P.M.
    Ed King sat on the metal cot in the jail cell. His head was lowered into his hands. All he could think about were his kids, left overnight in that house alone.
    Overnight? he thought. Who knew how long these yokels were going to keep him locked up? Not for the first time, he wished he could take it all back. He desperately wanted to be in their Pasadena house, his wife and children safe under the roof that had kept the world at bay for years.
    His mother had been gone thirty years. What had he been thinking, coming up here to find her? Bringing his family! He hadn’t even told them about the house, the dangers. He had lied to get them there.
    He slid his fingers onto his head and clutched two fistfuls of hair.
    That’s when the trouble had started—not when his wife had been kidnapped, but when he had started lying. He had convinced himself that they would have never agreed to moving into the old Victorian—or even to coming to Pinedale—if they had known how dangerous it was. And for what? So he could pursue the crazy dream of finding his mother, a dream—no, a need —he had since he was seven years old.
    So he’d pretended to know nothing about the house. He’d lied.
    He squeezed his eyes closed and tugged at his hair.
    What a fool he was.
    Now, he’d pulled his whole family into his deceit. He had the kids lying about where their mother was, saying she was in Pasadena, wrapping up the sale of their home. He had taught them to be honest, to live with integrity. Then he had told them to lie, that they had to lie.
    What a mess he’d made. Everything was spiraling out of control. He had to do something. He had to get them back on track, make everything right again. But what—
    Tap . . . tap . .
    He looked around, expecting to see a deputy at the bars. No one stood there.
    Tap.
    He stood and walked to the bars. There were four cells, two on either side of a short hallway. To his right, a door with a small window led to the sheriff ’s offices. The tapping came again, and he realized someone was softly rapping on the metal fire door at the other end of the hall, to his left. The knocks took on a pattern, a rhythm he recognized.
    Tap . . . tap, tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . . tap, tap.
    He smiled. It was the theme from The Last of the Mohicans , Xander’s favorite movie soundtrack. Every now and then, the boy would play it over and over—in his room, in the car—until the whole family felt as though it was their theme, the sound-track to their lives.
    â€œXander?” he whispered, then shot a glance to the office door.
    The tapping continued.
    He noticed a wedge of wood on the floor by the door. He assumed it was used to prop it open when the cells became stuffy.
    â€œHey!” he yelled, knowing Xander would hear and hoping he’d hide. The tapping stopped. “You, out there, in the office! Hey!” He kept yelling until the office door opened and a deputy