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upstairs, “Felton, do you want a grilled cheese?”
    â€œYes! Yes, I do, Jerri!” I called back. I smiled. This felt like the good life to me, Aleah. “Andrew,” I said, “take a nap, okay? Enjoy your Saturday. Dad didn’t contact you from beyond the grave.”
    â€œOkay. He didn’t,” Andrew said. He turned and slowly loafed back up the stairs.
    I felt great. A few minutes later, Jerri brought me down a glass of milk and two grilled cheese sandwiches on wheat. (Fine—I prefer white, but I can’t push Jerri too far off her whole-grain, granola base.) While she was downstairs, she asked, “Did Andrew tell you what’s bothering him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHe’s really behaving strangely.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI hope this isn’t the start of something.”
    Suddenly I pictured Jerri last summer when she was going crazy—her hair all snaggly and gross, her skin so pale. I pictured Andrew with his shaved head and pirate outfit, which he wore because he was crazy. I thought about what Andrew had just said: What if Dad contacted you from beyond the grave? My heart accelerated. My forehead got sweaty. A chill wind blew… “He had a bad night’s sleep,” I said.
    â€œPoor guy,” Jerri said. “Maybe I’ll get him some peach yogurt at the store.”
    â€œHe’d like that,” I nodded.
    â€¢ • •
    It was the start of something new, Aleah.
    Man. I think I should stop now and watch some TV.

August 15th, 10:55 p.m.
O’Hare Airport, Part VIII (Hotel)
    Journal it!
    TV is boring.
    Have you ever received an email from Randy Stone, Aleah? Maybe?
    He smokes cigarettes.
    Do you know what I’m talking about?
    Because I have been on the news and stuff, and Andrew had a link to email me from feltonreinstein.com, I sometimes got weird emails (mostly from like ten-year-old boys). I opened them, because they always made me feel good about myself.
    (Stuff like this: Dear Felton, That run you had against Richland Center was awesome. I just watched it on YouTube. You are very fast. You are awesome. Keep kickin’ butt!!! Sincerely, Jared)
    So when, during the evening of that same Saturday that Jerri made me grilled cheeses, the same Saturday Andrew said that weird thing about Dad, something arrived from [email protected], I clicked it without thinking twice, even though I didn’t recognize the name. This is what it said (cut and pasted from the actual email):
    The very brilliant child detective Randy Stone lit a cigarette. It flamed up and scared him. Then he smoked and coughed, because he doesn’t smoke and thinks cigarettes are stupid. He threw the cigarette into Felton Reinstein’s closet and the closet went up in flames, because Felton smells like a big sack of cow manure and cow manure is highly flammable. There were big manure flames that burned the detective’s eyes.
    Good work, detective.
    This was the break in the case Randy Stone needed. “This Felton character has serious problems. This Felton Reinstein cannot be trusted.”
    Randy Stone left the basement bedroom, turned to the garage door, and walked into the garage and out onto the country drive.
    Where is he? Where should he be?
    Our boy must go.
    That was it. Detective Randy Stone?
    My heart pounded. I read it again. It seemed sort of threatening. Before that moment, I’d sort of recovered my sense of ease (which I’d momentarily lost after Andrew’s weird question). I was just lounging in bed. But after that email? I sat upright and braced myself against the wall. My feet got cold. My sweat went cold. I had to breathe deep to not hyperventilate.
    I emailed back: Who is this?
    I waited—staring at the laptop screen like a hypnotized rabbit—but received no reply.
    Then I considered calling the cops. I smell like cow manure? I can’t be trusted. Our boy must go?
    I printed out the email and