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he called Spokane for backup. They showed up at four-thirty.”
    Emily Kenyon felt lousy just then. The kid was flustered. He was doing what the sheriff had told him.
    “Emily, err, Detective , there’s one thing you ought to know,” he said. She was so mad at him, he could feel it. He didn’t wait for her response. “I saw the same wound on Mr. Martin. I think he’s been shot, too. So do the guys from Spokane.”
    Emily paused. She hadn’t expected that. Adrenaline pulsed. “Jesus, Jason,” she finally blurted, “what the hell happened out there? Are you sure? And where are the boys? Have you seen any sign of them?”
    “No. Nothing. Backhoe’s on its way. We’re taking video and stills as soon as the light’s a little better here. Then . . .” he caught himself. “When you get here and give us the go ahead we’ll see if we can find them. I remember reading about a kid who survived longer than a week . . .”
    She cut him off. “Yes, you told me, in Pakistan.”
    “It was India,” Jason said, slightly glad he could trump her on something. She’d hurt his feelings and it was a tiny payback. It felt just a little bit good.
    Emily Kenyon got that, even on the tiny cell phone.
    “Yes, India ,” she said. “I’m on my way. Be there ASAP.”
    She hung up, put on a shirt, and ran a brush through her hair. A rubber band was the only remedy. The ponytail was ridiculous at her age, and Emily knew it. But there was no time for anything like washing and blow-drying, which on a good day was a fifteen-minute chore. Not when there were two bodies west of Cherrystone and two kids missing.
    Need to cut this mess, she thought, thinking of her mother’s advice that a woman should cut her hair when she reaches forty. And, if you ask me, that’s stretching it, Emily , her mother had added.
    She didn’t have the heart to wake Jenna as she passed her room. Leaving her alone again wasn’t right, but Jenna had school. Besides, somebody deserved some rest around there. She wrote a note and stuck it on the refrigerator—the first place Jenna was sure to go.
    “Come home right after school. Serious case. Love, Mom”
    And Emily was out the door.

Chapter Four
    Tuesday, 7:35 A.M., Cherrystone, Washington
    Jenna Kenyon grabbed a Stawberry Pop-Tart and started for the door. There was no time for the toaster to do its thing that morning. She’d have to eat it gummy and cold. Jenna hastily wrote, “See you after school. I love you, too, Mom,” and added a smiley face to the note her mother had left on the fridge.
    It was after seven and Shalimar Patterson, her best friend since she moved to Cherrystone, was never late. Jenna locked the door behind her, and stood in front of the old house on Orchard wondering just what her mother had been up to all night and this morning. The past few days had been anything but routine. With school and work, routine was always a little on the fragile side. But the storm was completely unexpected, and her mother had thrown herself into a 24-7 schedule. What with her breakup with that jerk Cary, and her dad’s constant button pressing, Jenna knew her mother was enduring what she called a “bad patch.” It would pass. They always did.
    Shali’s classic VW bug—cream with a slightly tattered black ragtop—lurched into the driveway. The car radio’s volume was cranked up loud enough for Jenna to make out the song lyrics from the Kenyons’ front door. Not good. But that was Shalimar Patterson to the nines. In your face, but forgivably so. Jenna hurried to the car. A half-empty bag of kettle corn and a backpack occupied the passenger seat. She was also anything, but neat.
    “Sorry about that.” Shali revved the engine. “Oops, foot slipped.”
    Jenna smiled and scooted both items to the backseat. Popcorn fell on the driveway.
    “Birds will eat it,” Shali said.
    “Yeah. Hey, something’s up at Nicholas Martin’s place.” Jenna slid into the duct-tape-repaired bucket seat as Shali, a