Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. “Really?”

I looked at Ema. She shrugged. I turned back to Spoon. “Are you putting me on?”

“No,” Spoon said. “And no offense, Mickey, but you’re kinda sounding full of yourself.”

“What?”

Spoon’s eyes met mine. “You’re not that powerful, Mickey. You didn’t make me do anything. I made my own choices. I’m my own man.” He looked at Ema and winked. “That’s why the ladies dig me, am I right?”

Ema rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me punch you.”

Spoon laughed at that. I just stood there.

“You weren’t the only one the Bat Lady chose,” Spoon said. “Sure, you’re our leader, I guess. But we’re a team. We are all a part of Abeona—you, me, Ema. Rachel too. Can we walk away from it? Well, I can’t. I mean, I really can’t. My legs aren’t working right now. But even if they were, I don’t think I could. And that has nothing to do with you, Mickey. You’re not to blame.”

“Wow,” I said.

“What?”

“You’re kind of making sense.”

Spoon arched an eyebrow. “I’m a constant surprise.” Another wink for Ema. “Another reason the ladies dig me.”

Ema made a fist and showed it to him. Spoon howled with laughter. When he finished, he spread his arms and said, “So?”

“So?” I repeated.

“So why do you think I told my dad I had to see you? We rescue kids. That doesn’t stop because I got hurt. So who do we need to rescue now?”

“Just rest,” I said. “You need to concentrate on getting better.”

Spoon frowned at me and looked toward Ema.

“A guy I met in a chat room,” Ema said to him.

“A boyfriend?” Spoon asked.

“Sort of.”

Spoon shook his head. “I get shot and you’re already on to a new guy?”

“I will hurt you,” Ema said.

Spoon pushed the glasses back up his nose again. “Tell me about him,” he said.

So she did. Spoon nodded. He never showed doubt. He never judged. He just listened. It made me wonder who indeed was the leader of this group. Ema was just finishing up when a nurse came in and told us it was time to leave.

“I have my laptop,” Spoon said. “I’ll get us everything I can on this Jared Lowell.”

Chapter 9

I decided to walk home because I needed to see something.

I cut across Northfield Avenue and tried to clear my head. I made a right on the next corner. I had a destination in mind, even if, in a sense, it no longer existed.

Bat Lady’s house.

I know that I shouldn’t refer to her as that anymore. The Bat Lady was the name the town kids had given to the creepy, crazy old lady who lives in the creepy, crazy old house, the one that children whispered about and made up stories about and even genuinely feared.

The Bat Lady was not crazy. Or maybe she was, but either way, she was not what any of those kids ever imagined. In a way, the reality behind Bat Lady was even scarier.

The decrepit house that had stood for more than a century was barely more than ashes now. It had been burned down last week. I had been in the house at the time. I had barely escaped with my life. I still didn’t know why that man had tried to burn me alive. I had only met him once before.

He was the paramedic who told me that my dad was dead.

I stopped in front of the remains of the house. There was yellow tape surrounding it. I wondered whether that meant that this was a crime scene, if the authorities had figured out that this had been a case of arson, not merely fire.

I flashed back to the day it all started, just a few weeks ago. I had been walking to my new high school, minding my own business, strolling right past this very spot when the front door of the scary old house creaked open.

The Bat Lady had called out to me. “Mickey?”

I had never seen her before. I had no idea how she knew my name.

She pointed a bony finger at me and said the words that changed my life: “Your father isn’t dead. He’s very much alive.”

And then she vanished back inside.

I had thought that his casket would hold the answer. Instead it just led to more questions.

I stared at the remains of the house. Signs reading CONDEMNED and PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING were everywhere.

So now what?

There were secret tunnels under the house. I wondered whether the fire had affected them. I doubted it. I tried to remember the last time—well, the only time—I had been in them. I knew that the entrance was by the garage, deep in the woods. I knew that they led to the house. I knew that there were other paths underground, a whole maze of them maybe.

Tunnels that had been closed off to me.

Was that all gone now? Or would there be clues down there?

I thought about working my way into the garage and searching for the tunnels, but, no, I couldn’t do that right now. For one thing, there were the various KEEP OUT–type signs. But more than that, there were neighbors out and about. A man mowed his lawn. A woman walked her dog. Two girls were drawing on a driveway with chalk. I debated circling around back, trying to find another way into those woods behind Bat Lady’s property, when I heard a sweet sound that always got my attention.

The tunnels would have to wait until the street was quiet.

Besides, someone was dribbling a basketball.

The sound called out to me. It worked like a mating call or something. I was drawn to it. The sound was soothing, engaging, comforting, inviting. If someone is dribbling a basketball and you want to join him, you are always welcome. It is part of the code. You could shoot around with someone or rebound for them or take winners. You didn’t have to know each other. You didn’t have to be the same age or the same sex or play at the same level. All that vanished when someone was dribbling a basketball.

As I drew closer, I could tell from the sound that it was someone practicing alone. Two dribbles. Shot. Two dribbles. Shot. By the speed of it, I’d say that the person was practicing low post moves. The sounds were too close together for outside shots. If you play the game, you’ll know what I mean.

When I turned the corner, I saw my team co-captain Brandon Foley taking hook shots in the key. I stopped and watched for a few seconds. He took three from the left, then three from the right, then back to the left. He made nearly every one. His face was coated in sweat. He was concentrating, focused, completely lost in the simple bliss of this drill, but there was something more here, something deeper and not so joyful.