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only too happy to run you in.”
    But the janitor, still playing the innocent, said he didn’t want to press charges—he just wanted to know what was going on.
    “Just a big misunderstanding, sir,” the cop told him. He shot me a look: “One that had better not happen again.”
    The Diazes took me home. Señor Diaz made me ride in the back of the pickup, which I didn’t particularly mind, since he and Carlotta spent the entire trip arguing in high-decibel Spanish; when we stopped at the school to drop off the librarian, she stumbled out of the cab looking pale and half-deaf. Then when we got to my stop, Señor Diaz had a quieter conversation with myaunt and uncle. I didn’t need to listen in to know that I’d be taking the bus to school from now on.
    After the Diazes left, my uncle told me that it “might be best” if I didn’t go by the diner or the gas station anymore, and my aunt added that they wouldn’t need my help at the store “for a while,” which I understood was her way of saying I was grounded. I got really mad, and started going on about how stupid it was that no one believed me, and how it wasn’t going to be my fault if the janitor killed another kid; but my aunt and uncle just shook their heads and left me alone to rant and rave.
    It was Friday, so I had the whole weekend to feel sorry for myself. Monday was a little better; I got to sleep an extra hour and a half, which almost made up for having to take the school bus. I didn’t see Carlotta until second-period English. She ignored me during class, and afterwards I had to run out into the hall to catch up with her.
    “I’m not supposed to talk to you, Jane,” she said. “My dad thinks you’re a bad influence.”
    “I am a bad influence. It’s one of the reasons you like me.”
    The joke fell flat, but at least she didn’t walk away. After a moment, she asked: “Did you hear about the janitor?”
    “What about him?”
    “He quit his job over the weekend. The librarian told me he called up the school superintendent on Saturday and said he was leaving.”
    “Leaving as in moving away?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Well don’t you see what that means? He’s guilty! Even though the cops let him go, he’s afraid they’ll remember him next time a kid disappears.”
    “Maybe,” said Carlotta. “Or maybe he’s afraid people will jump to conclusions when they hear the cops were at his place.”
    “Carlotta, I swear, I didn’t make any of that stuff up.”
    “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I mean, if he’s really gone for good.” She looked at me. “You should probably be careful until we know that for sure, huh?”
    The thought had already occurred to me. Friday afternoon, as we were about to leave the janitor’s house, I’d caught the janitor eyeballing me. The cops were already in their cars, and Felipe was revving the pickup, and I looked over and saw the janitor standing in his front doorway, still in his underwear, staring at me. He’d dropped the bewildered routine and put a whole new face on.
    A hostile face?
    No. He didn’t show any emotion at all. He was just… intent. Like he wanted to make really sure he’d recognize me next time we met up.
    It was good for a few weeks’ nightmares. In my dreams, he’d drive up to my aunt and uncle’s place after midnight with his headlights off, and sit smoking dope and looking up at my bedroom window. Sometimes he’d just sit there, thinking about how he was going to get even with me, and other times he’d get out and walk around the outside of the house, looking for a way in. One night I woke up in a sweat, sure I’d just heard a van driving away, and when I opened my window to look out, I smelled pot smoke.
    I also dreamed about that voice I’d heard on the phone in the janitor’s kitchen. When I was awake I didn’t think about it so much—I mean, it’s not like I forgot about it, but it was just so weird, I sort of pretended I forgot about it. But it