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moment.”
    “I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
    Luke hugs me tight for a minute, and I let myself relax. I’m pretty exhausted, actually.
    “Come on, let’s go in,” he says at last. “By the way, I think Janice was ripped off,” he adds as we head toward the building. “Those tablets? I looked at the active ingredient, and it’s aspirin in fancy Latin.”
    “Really?” I almost want to giggle as I picture Janice frantically scattering the tablets over the desert. “Well, let’s not tell her.”
    —
    The table is covered with food when we arrive back in the diner, although no one seems to be eating except Janice, who’s devouring scrambled eggs. Mum is stirring her coffee furiously, Suze is nibbling the side of her thumbnail (which she always does when she’s stressed), and Alicia is pouring some kind of green powder into a cup. It’ll be some revolting healthy thing.
    “Hi, everyone,” I say, and slide into my chair. “How’s the food?”
    “We’re trying to think,” growls Suze. “No one’s thinking hard enough.”
    Alicia murmurs something in her ear, Suze nods, and they both shoot sidelong looks at me. And just for one awful moment I feel as though I’m back at school and the mean girls are all pointing at my games kit. (Mum made me wear the old games kit, long after everyone else had changed to the new outfit, because she thought it was a rip-off. I mean, I don’t blame her, but I did get laughed at, every single games lesson .)

    Anyway. I’m not going to get upset. I’m a grown-up with a job to do. I take a bite of my waffle, pull Dad’s map toward me again, and stare at it until the lines blur. That wise old woman’s words are ringing in my ears. Look for the friends. Look for the family.
    Whatever this mystery is, it’s all about those four friends. So let’s go back to basics. Corey’s the friend in Las Vegas. That’s our biggest clue. We need to track him down. Be smarter. But how?
    I must know more than I realize, I tell myself firmly. I must . I just need to think harder. I close my eyes tight and try to send myself back in time. It’s Christmas. I’m sitting by the fire in our Oxshott house. I can smell the Chocolate Orange in my lap. Dad has spread his old map out on the coffee table and is reminiscing about his trip to America. I can hear his voice again, in random snippets of memory.
    “…and then the fire got out of control; let me tell you, that was no picnic….”
    “…they say, ‘stubborn as a mule,’ and I know why—that wretched creature would not go down into the canyon….”
    “…we used to sit late into the night, drinking the local beer….”
    “…Brent and Corey were clever fellows—science grads they were….”
    “…they’d discuss their theories and scribble down their ideas….”

    “…Corey had the money, of course, wealthy family….”
    “…there’s nothing like camping out and seeing the sunrise….”
    “…we nearly lost the car down a ravine because Raymond would not give in….”
    “…Corey would be sketching away; he was quite an artist, as well as everything else….”
    Wait a minute.
    Corey was quite an artist . I’d forgotten that. And there was something else about Corey and his art. What was it? What was it…?
    The thing about me is: I’m quite good at bossing my brain about. It can forget about Visa bills if I want it to, and it can blur over arguments, and it can see the plus side in almost any situation. And now I’m telling it to remember. To go into all those old dusty holes in my head, which I never bother clearing out, and remember. Because I know there was something else…I simply know there was….
    Yes!
    “He used to put an eagle in each picture, like a trademark….”
    My eyes pop open. An eagle. I knew there was something. Well, it’s not much, but it’s a start, isn’t it?
    I whip out my phone, google corey artist eagle las vegas, and wait for the results. There’s something wrong with