“I never agreed to let you go out at all hours.”

“Yeah, you kind of did. I’m just meeting a friend. It’s not a big deal.”

I rushed out before he could argue. I knew that Myron was trying to do the right thing here, but man, he was the wrong guy to try. I found Ema about a block away from Bat Lady’s house.

“How do you get out so late?” I asked her.

“What?”

“You’re fourteen years old and you’re out at all hours,” I said. “Don’t your parents get mad?”

Ema frowned. “Are you writing my biography or something?”

I frowned right back. “Good one.”

“Yeah, sorry, that was pretty lame.”

“Writing your biography.”

“I know,” she said. “I used to be funnier. I mean, before I hung out with you.”

We both slowly turned and looked down the street at Bat Lady’s house. In a word: spooky. It was nearly midnight now. The house was totally dark, except for one light on, shining from an upstairs corner window. Her bedroom, I guessed. Shouldn’t an old lady have all the lights out by now? What was Bat Lady doing up there at this hour? I imagined her alone, lying in bed, reading or casting spells or devouring small children.

Man, I had to get a grip.

“So what did you want to check out?” I asked Ema.

“When I was hiding in the woods from that bald guy, I spotted something behind the garage.”

“What?”

“I don’t know exactly.” She seemed to think about how to proceed. “It looked like a garden or something. And I thought I saw . . .” Ema stopped, swallowed. “I thought maybe I saw a tombstone.”

The air was hot and humid tonight, but I suddenly felt a chill. “You mean, a tombstone like in a grave?”

“I don’t know. It might have just been a stone or something. That’s why I thought we should check it out.”

I agreed. I also wanted to check out the garage. What, I had been wondering, had that car been doing there anyway? If they were just visiting Bat Lady—and I couldn’t really fathom that—why not just leave the car outside? Why go to the trouble of putting it in that small garage that barely had room for the one vehicle?

I flashed back to my last encounter with the shavedhead man:

Is my father still alive?

We’ll talk.

Dang straight you’ll talk. But I wasn’t about to sit on my butt and wait for that. We started for the woods behind Bat Lady’s house. The flashlights posed a dilemma. Use them and someone might see and call the cops. Don’t use them and, well, we couldn’t see. For now, Ema and I kept them off, figuring we could turn them on when we got closer.

The streetlights gave off enough illumination for us to reach the edge of the woods. Again I was stunned to see how close the trees came to Bat Lady’s back door. The lights were off in her backyard too. I crept up to the kitchen door. Ema whispered, “What are you doing?”

Good question. I wasn’t about to break in again, was I? Especially not at night. Still I was drawn to the area. I don’t know why. I bent down low and checked the basement windows. Again it was pitch black. Not only that, every shade was pulled down tight. I couldn’t see a thing.

I thought about the last time I was here—inside Bat Lady’s house. I thought about that old photograph, that same butterfly I saw on the placard by my father’s grave. I thought about the light going on in the basement.

What, I wondered, was down there? For that matter, what was upstairs, in that room where the light was still on?

“Mickey?”

It was Ema. “Where’s this garden?” I whispered.

“Behind the garage. This way.”

We took two steps into the trees and stopped. It was simply too dark. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. We had to risk it. I took out my flashlight and kept the beam low. When we reached the garage, I tried to look inside but there were no windows.

“It’s back here,” Ema whispered.

I took a quick glance behind me. From the back, all the lights were still out at Bat Lady’s house. I wondered if that upstairs bedroom light remained on. Maybe Bat Lady had fallen asleep. Maybe she had fallen asleep hours ago and just forgot to turn off the light. Or maybe she had died and that was why the light was still on.

Nice thought, Mickey!

Ema and I hugged the side of the garage as we felt our way. When we reached the back corner, I shined the flashlight in front of me.

What the . . . ?

Ema had been right. There was a garden. I don’t know much about plants or flowers, but I could see this one was well kept and rather stunning. Here, in this mostly green wilderness, was a burst of well-tended color. A foot-high fence surrounded an area that was maybe fifteen feet by fifteen feet. There was a path right down the middle, gorgeous flowers blossoming on either side. And there, at the end of the path, was what definitely looked like a tombstone.

For a moment Ema and I didn’t move. Behind me I thought I could hear music now. Faint. Rock music. I looked at Ema. She heard it too. We slowly pivoted toward the Bat Lady’s house. The lights were still out. But the music was definitely coming from there.

Ema turned back to the tombstone. “The grave,” she said. “It’s probably for a pet, right?”

“Right,” I said too quickly.

“We should probably take a closer look, though.”

“Right,” I said again. I could actually feel my legs quaking now. I took the lead. We started toward the little fence and stepped over it. We made our way down the narrow path and stopped in front of the tombstone. I bent down. Ema followed. The music was still faint, but now I was able to make out some lyrics: My only love,

We’ll never see yesterday again. . . .

Rock music. The voice sounded familiar—Gabriel Wire from HorsePower maybe?—but I’d never heard the song before. I shook it off and shined the flashlight onto the worn gray tombstone. For a second—just a split second—I had the weirdest thought that I would see Ashley’s name on the tombstone, that someone had killed her and buried her here, and that this was the end of my search. Like I said, the thought only lasted a split second. But it sent shivers everywhere.

The beam from the flashlight hit the top of the tombstone. First observation: the tombstone was old and worn. If it had been for a pet, that animal had died long ago.

I inched the beam down. The second thing I spotted on the tombstone were, well, words. An epitaph, I figured. I read it once, then a second time, and I still wasn’t sure what to make of it: LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,