Chapter 11

The walk home from Clint Street felt long, and Abigail could not shake the hot, stinging feeling in the

pit of her stomach. It had been a frustrating day. The case felt like it was going nowhere,

and she was bothered by how much she minded the way things had ended with her consultant.

Abigail liked being right, and try as she might,

she could not escape the feeling that this time she had been wrong. She tried not to think about it,

to concentrate on the High Tower case, but her mind would not cooperate and kept replaying things

that she really did not want to see or hear again. She was

almost surprised when she looked up to find herself on Beechnut Street, with her sign still standing

in the driveway to greet her. Abigail had forgotten that she had left the sign out again this

morning. She had not wanted anyone to think she had given up on the detective

business, so she had set it up before she left. She had also taken a small wooden box that her

brother had made in eighth grade shop class that was supposed to be a recipe box, and had never

been used for that or any other purpose, and attached a small card to it that said messages.

That had seemed like an elegant solution for a girl with no voicemail, and the box neatly covered up the bottom line on the sign

that read Inquire Within, which was good, because the garage was locked up tight, and there was no

one to inquire with.

Abigail checked the message box and felt a thrill as her fingers encountered paper within.

When she pulled it out, however, she realized that it was only the wrapper of a freeze-fudge bar,

which someone had shoved into her message box because there was no garbage can handy, which Abigail

thought was very rude. She heard the screen door open, and turned to see her mother looking at her,

arms folded across her chest, but leaning back against the doorframe, serious, but not grim.

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