by Brat
“I’m sorry,” the librarian was saying, “but you absolutely cannot access historical records without a library card.”
“What’s wrong with a driver’s license?” said an older-looking girl, with olive skin and the greenest eyes Rhyme had ever seen. The girl leaned toward Ms. Sharpe with one hand on the desk, making
her seem commanding—threatening, even. Rhyme was intimidated,
and hung back, hidden by a graphic novel display.
“Unfortunately,” said Ms. Sharpe, “you can’t get a library card without an Attaway address. And yours is from Virginia.” She handed back the license.
“Well, isn’t that perfect,” the girl huffed, turning to her companion. Rhyme guessed he was probably her boyfriend. She couldn’t see his face, but he was tall, with skinny blue jeans and a backwards cap sporting a logo for some sort of Wildlife Fund. He looked to be about the girl’s age, but his deeply tanned arms were covered in tattoos. Rhyme had never known anyone her age with a tattoo, let alone someone with two arms full of them. These two were definitely not from around here.
“Hold on a second, Meg,” said the boy. “Is there anything we can do?” His voice was sweeter, more cajoling than the girl’s. “We’ve only just gotten into town, and it would mean a lot to us.”
“What brings you to Attaway?” Ms. Sharpe asked sternly.
“Visiting our cousin,” said the girl—Meg—a little too quickly, like she was covering up something. “We’re just here for a week or two,” she added. Our cousin, Rhyme noted. So they were related.
“Then perhaps you could use your cousin’s card?” Ms. Sharpe said, neatening up a row of bookmarks on the counter. “And just who is your cousin?” But Meg was already pulling her bag onto her shoulder and turning away.
“Thanks for all your help,” she said, with an edge of sarcasm.
The boy hung back. “Seriously, we appreciate the time.” When he turned to leave, Rhyme caught a glimpse of his face. High cheekbones, full lips. He was remarkably attractive, Rhyme thought, blushing. But more significantly, the boy looked exactly like Meg. They weren’t just brother and sister, Rhyme realized. They were twins.
As they left, Rhyme slipped out from behind the display, intrigued by the mysterious new transplants. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, to have a confidante my own age? Rhyme drew closer to the broad, dusty window to get a better look. Meg, she saw, was pulling out a large map (hadn’t they heard of the Internet?) and jabbing at it with her pointer finger. Rhyme cracked the window slightly, curious where the cryptic pair were headed.
“That’s it, Conrad. I’m telling you,” Meg said, “we don’t need property records.”
The boy shook his head. “But that doesn’t match the letter.”
“Just trust me,” she said, groaning in frustration. “Come on, let’s go.”
The twins continued to the parking lot, to the same car that had been idling outside Mrs. Simpson’s. Of course it was theirs. The red station wagon from North Carolina. Conrad looked up to see Rhyme at the window. They locked eyes. Or at least she thought they did. Then he jumped in, and the mysterious twins zoomed off.
Before she could process this all, Ms. Sharpe called out: “Rhyme! It’s that time again! Trigonometry time!” As her tutor approached, Rhyme’s phone buzzed in her pocket. A new message. But just as she was going to reach for it, Ms. Sharpe stopped her.
“You’ll have plenty of time to play with your phone later,” said Ms. Sharpe, pressing a workbook and protractor into Rhyme’s reluctant hands. “For the next hour, all you have to worry about are Pythagorean identities.”
CHAPTER 4
Rhyme dug a spoon into a carton of mint chip ice cream. Dinner. Mrs. Simpson spent Fridays at the Sunset Club, a senior citizen club nearby that ran weekly bingo games, and she wouldn’t be back until later. All alone, Rhyme had decided to make the most of a house with no adults. Two houses with no adults, she reminded herself, as she turned up the volume on Mrs. Simpson’s surprisingly high-tech stereo system.
After coming home from the library, Rhyme had walked Reggie, the old Boston terrier that really preferred to be carried. Aside from the drivers of passing cars, the only other person Rhyme saw was the gardener, a not-so-friendly man about her dad’s age, who tended the rosebushes once a week.
Finally, he drove off in his pickup truck, and Rhyme made herself right at home. In particular with Mrs. Simpson’s fancy speakers. Her parents would’ve killed her for blasting music this loud. You could probably hear it down the street. Another perk of being the only person left on the block, Rhyme thought, as she dug into the dessert course: a bag of extra-spicy jalapeño chips. Over the booming music, she couldn’t even hear herself chew. Or think. And that was a plus.
All afternoon, during the long, grueling study session, Rhyme’s thoughts had drifted anywhere and everywhere … except of course to the math problems at hand. Over at the library, Ms. Sharpe had charged her with completing a problem set on the “practical applications” of trigonometry. Namely, calculating the time it would take for a car driving sixty miles per hour at a thirty-degree angle to collide with a train traveling forty miles per hour. Rhyme couldn’t find anything practical about the problem. Who would ever drive a car toward a moving train?
While she penciled and erased numbers, Rhyme couldn’t help but imagine a red station wagon careening through Attaway. In the driver’s seat, the beautiful girl with green eyes perched cat-eye sunglasses on her forehead. And her handsome brother sat beside her, his tattooed arm hanging out the passenger side window, dark brown against the red paint. Both of them kept their eyes locked on the horizon. By and by, the town melted away, leaving an open highway that began to cut through a never-ending desert. In the distance, an old locomotive sounded its whistle in warning. As the train snaked along the tracks, closer and closer, the boy attempted to jerk the steering wheel and avert a collision. But the girl couldn’t be stopped, slamming her foot down on the pedal. Into the wind, she screamed, “Property records!”
“Earth to Rhyme!” Ms. Sharpe had admonished her, rousing Rhyme from her daydreams. “It’s opposite over the hypotenuse. Not adjacent.” Kayla’s mom had seemed at her wit’s end, like Rhyme was a lost cause. Which, as she hit rock bottom of the ice cream carton, Rhyme now worried wasn’t far from the truth….
Just then, her cell phone rang. Mom. Rhyme rushed to turn down the volume on the stereo.
“Rhyme?” Her mother’s voice sounded muffled and far away. “Hold on, honey, I’m putting you on speakerphone. I’m with Dad and Harmony.” From the background, they chorused, “How was your day?”
“Oh, fine,” Rhyme said glumly. “I got in a fight with Matilda and screwed up my trig assignment.”
“You’ll get there, kiddo!” said her dad. “How’s the house? How’s Mrs. Simpson? Both still standing?” He chuckled on the other end of the line.
“Everything’s fine here. Same old …” Rhyme said, failing to mention that Mrs. Simpson’s active social life meant Rhyme was basically staying home alone anyway. “Actually, there are these two new kids who showed up today without a library card …”
“New friends?” Her dad sounded distracted. “That’s wonderful, honey! Hold on. Here’s Harmony. She wants to say hi, too.”
“Rhyme, darling!” Her sister came on the line, a faux British accent in tow. “Tell me about your new companions!”
“What? I’m not friends with them,” Rhyme said, trying not to sound too annoyed. “Are you guys even listening?”
“To your every word, babes,” said Harmony. “Tell me everything.”
“Well, I’ve never seen anybody like them in Attaway. I think they’re brother and sister. Twins, maybe. The boy even has tattoos all over his arms. They could be celebrities—do you know any famous twins? Or maybe they’re on the run, like criminals or outlaws,” Rhyme said breathlessly.
“Just like Bonnie and Clyde,” Harmony chuckled, in a knowing way that made Rhyme feel small.
/>
“Who?”
“You really need to watch the classics, sis.” Harmony sighed. “So, the funniest thing happened between takes today …” As Harmony began to recount her daily schedule on set, the reception went fuzzy.
“Hello?”
“ …and the lady who plays Mrs. Moorehouse told me …”
“Harmony?”
“ …which made Toby get the hiccups, and …”
“I can’t hear you!”
“Sorry, kiddo.” Her dad’s voice came on the line. “Bad service here. Can we try you back from the hotel?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rhyme said. “I’m going to sleep soon anyway.”
Hanging up, Rhyme noticed a little red balloon hovering above her messages. The text from earlier. She’d grown so accustomed to radio silence that she rarely checked her inbox anymore.
But there it was: one new notification.
She swiped with her thumb, and a message from T. K. popped up. Her heart rose in her chest, and then plummeted all the way to Mrs. Simpson’s basement. She tried responding, but her thumbs were paralyzed. And just like that, Rhyme was transported back to that magical night from a few months ago, when the stars had all aligned….
She had come home from the Spring Fling, having snuck into the dance despite failing the Test Test. In the backyard, T. K. had set up bright lamps and a film projector, playing old videos of them together. It was perfect. And as they held hands in the moonlight, Rhyme believed it would go on like that forever. No more confusion, no more second-guessing. But then T. K. revealed his summer plans. He was abandoning her. Nearly in tears, she fled to the house. But he called out after her. Filled with conflicting emotions—like the hot and cold currents of the ocean—she rushed to his side. They kissed then, and nothing else seemed to matter.
Now that same, sweet boy had only this to say: “Ha no way.”
Three measly, pathetic words. Days of complete silence, and that was all he texted in response to her message about her family going to LA. With a sigh, Rhyme tossed her phone away and curled up on Mrs. Simpson’s couch. Beneath her, Reggie tucked in under the coffee table, his long black ears folding lazily. In a few minutes, Rhyme was sound asleep, back on that endless highway with the train tooting its whistle many miles away….
A few hours later, Rhyme woke up with a start. It was nearly midnight, and Mrs. Simpson was fast asleep. (Rhyme could hear her legendary snores drifting softly from upstairs.) A soft sliding sound cut the silence, and Reggie stood up, on alert. “Shhh! Shhh, boy!” she whispered. Silence again. Maybe she had hallucinated the entire thing. But then, again, she heard the sliding sound. With a sickening jolt, Rhyme realized what it was.
A window opening, and a window closing.
CHAPTER 5
Creak!
Upstairs, the floorboards groaned as Rhyme sat paralyzed with fear. Mrs. Simpson slept like a log … and what were the chances Reggie knew how to open and close a window? It had to be somebody else—somebody who didn’t belong. Rhyme was right in the intruder’s sight line when they hit the stairs. There was no way to escape.
Rhyme backed into the pantry, her every muscle alert. She could have heard a pin drop down the block. As she shuffled back, seeking a good place to hide, she bumped against the shelves. A box of cereal fell to the ground. Loudly.
The footsteps stopped overhead.
Rhyme held her breath, sure the psycho killer could hear her heart beating. Who would break into Mrs. Simpson’s? Suddenly she remembered the gardener, with his inky black eyes and permanent frown. Rhyme had to get out. With slow, cautious steps, she tried to tiptoe out of the pantry. Crunch! She’d stepped on the cereal. A loud footstep heaved onto the floorboards.
Scurrying into the hallway, Rhyme pulled open the first door she saw, stepped in, and closed the door gingerly so the latch didn’t make a noise. Feeling around for something, anything, she let herself exhale. The strong stench of mothballs. She was practically drowning in Mrs. Simpson’s fur coats. Running her hands over the minks and sables, she felt something long, thin, and heavy. A cane. Instinctively, she grabbed it, readying it in her hand like an all-star slugger.
There was nothing to do now but listen. Rhyme held her breath.
The steps were drawing nearer, and again she thought of the old train in the desert. Closer and closer. Her palms were sweating. She tightened her grip on the cane. Then, through a crack of blue light beneath the closet door—a reflection from the pool—she saw a pair of feet. He was right outside.
Rhyme closed her eyes. This was it. Fight or flight. And flight was no longer an option. Or get kidnapped, Rhyme thought, as the door swung open. In a single motion, Rhyme jumped out, pulled back the cane, which she now saw was a flimsy plastic—and delivered a strong blow against the intruder’s shin.
“Ow!” he cried, as he crumpled to the ground.
Rhyme held up the cane for another line drive, when another voice interrupted. “Stop! Please! Don’t!” A pair of hands flew up in the air. Another figure came into the light, and Rhyme realized …
“You!” she and Meg yelled at the same time.
“And me,” said the intruder, now revealed to be Meg’s brother. He was nursing his leg. “Conrad. And you’re that girl from the library.”
Rhyme wasn’t ready to relinquish the cane, but she lowered it a little.
“You shouldn’t use your real name, you dummy,” Meg practically spat at her brother.
“I already know your name,” Rhyme said. “Meg.” Rhyme looked straight at her. Meg’s face registered shock, then confirmation. Her eyes narrowed. Rhyme knew she had Meg backed into a corner, and what do cornered animals do but—
“Run!” Meg yelled, as she tried to shove Rhyme to the side. But Rhyme was quicker than she looked, twirling past her, and slamming the cane across the front door. Meg nearly clotheslined herself.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s happening,” Rhyme said.
“What?” Meg said, cocking her head. “You think you can stop both of us? What are you? Eleven? Twelve?”
Thirteen, Rhyme thought, indignant.
“We’re not going anywhere until I make sure my shinbone isn’t shattered,” Conrad said, hobbling to his feet to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Thanks for that, by the way.” Rhyme looked at Conrad, clearly not a seasoned criminal. And she almost felt bad for hurting him. But not that bad. With her free hand, she pulled out her phone, dialed, and turned it so it faced the twins, making sure the digits were visible: 911. Her thumb hovered over the Call button.
“Five seconds to tell me who you are and what’s going on,” she said. Conrad looked to Meg, who shook her head imperceptibly. “Five, four, three, two …” Rhyme turned the phone back again, so it was facing only her. “ … one.” Rhyme said as she tapped randomly at the bottom of her screen, making it look like she’d pressed Call.
“Okay, okay!” Meg waved her hands in the air. “Just hang up.”
Rhyme, now very much in control—and liking it—pocketed her phone and pointed the cane at Mrs. Simpson’s couch. “Good thing I have nothing but time.”
The siblings shuffled over to the living room.
“First off,” Rhyme said, “where are you from?”
“North Carolina,” said Meg. Perched on the large, winged sofa, Meg reminded her of Birdie.
“Asheville,” Conrad added from the recliner, set all the way back, the footrest elevating his injured leg. “You can’t just tell people North Carolina. That’s misleading.”
“Does she even …” Meg turned to Rhyme. “Do you even know Asheville?” Rhyme shook her head no.
“It’s a super cool town,” Conrad explained. “Lots of converted warehouses and restaurants and live music.”
“If it’s so great, then why are you in boring Attaway?”
Conrad started to speak, but Meg flashed a look of warning in his direction.
“Weren’t you eavesdropping in the library?” Meg
’s lips curled sarcastically. “You should know we’re visiting our cousin for the summer.”
“Is your cousin Mrs. Simpson?” The name didn’t seem to register with either sibling. “Because you’re trespassing in her house right now.” Rhyme crossed her arms confidently.
Conrad said, “This house didn’t always belong to her. It used to belong to our grandmother Bea. Or at least we think …”
“Cut it out, Conrad!” Meg hissed.
“Maybe she can help us …” Conrad said.
“She is me. Rhyme. And maybe I can help with what?”
“Finding out if this is really Grandma Bea’s place,” Conrad said. “We’ve never even set foot in Attaway before.”
They all jumped in their seats as a door slammed shut upstairs. “Don’t move, and don’t make a sound,” Rhyme said, running to the foot of the stairs. Reggie started barking furiously.
Mrs. Simpson called downstairs: “Rhyme, dear, everything all right? I heard a commotion down there.” Slowly but surely, Mrs. Simpson descended the staircase, her curlers coming undone with every step. Before Rhyme could answer, Mrs. Simpson pushed past her and hobbled into the living room. “Wait! I can explain!” Rhyme said, running after the old lady, who was surprisingly spry, even with her cane. But the living room was empty. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhyme saw the back door was slightly ajar.
Meg and Conrad were gone.
CHAPTER 6
A few days later, a postcard from Camp Songbird arrived at Rhyme’s house.
Rhyme!
We miss you! Everything at camp has been ah-mazing so far—except that you aren’t here! Boo! Plus, there’s no reception in the mountains so we can’t even text. Double boo! You would love the rehearsal space here. It makes our gym look like a fast food place bathroom. They even have a recording studio! Oh! Also! You’ll never believe it, but we’re kinda bonding with PowerSurge. And I’m thinking about getting back into dance! We might even choreograph a routine for the end-of-summer jamboree! I know. Crazy. Miss you so so so so so so so so so so so much,