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“If anything of value turns out to be missing, you'll need to go down to the division office and make a report.”

“Oh, I don't think that's going to be necessary,” my mom says. “And thanks so much for your time.”

“No problem. That's what we're here for.” The young police officer grins as he strides out the front door, tipping his hat as he goes. I wonder if he practices striding around in those boots in front of a mirror at home. He's really good at it.

“They didn't even send a detective,” mutters Caleb.

“I think they only do that if something of real value was stolen,” my mom says gently.

Isabel speaks up. “Maybe someone just assumed he had money, so they broke in looking for it.”

“Well, that's certainly what that nice officer thought…or that some kids saw you working here and decided to trash the place after you left,” my mom continues, sitting on a box of ramen. “He said they see it all the time. Bored kids…summer…out of school, nothing to do…”

I've been quiet ever since Mom opened the door to find the disaster inside. I can feel my brain going a mile a minute. I didn't even say anything as we waited for the police, while Mom went on and on about how she should have never let us do this alone, it was too dangerous, blah blah blah.

“One thing, Mom,” I finally say.

“Yes, Ted?”

“There was no break-in. The door wasn't forced, or left open or anything.”

“You probably forgot to lock it last night,” Mom answers.

“That couldn't be it,” says Isabel.

“And why not, dear?” asks my mom. “We all make mistakes, even Ted. No one's perfect.” She smiles at me, which only makes it worse.

“But you unlocked the door when we came in. Which proves it was locked in the first place,” counters Isabel.

“That's right!” I say.

Caleb throws down his pencil in frustration. “So how did they get in?”

“Maybe the lawyer had an extra key. Or someone in his office copied the one he had.” I'm thinking through the options like I do when playing a game. “Or one of the other tenants has a key….Of course, the landlord also has one….”

“Or maybe…,” Mom begins, weaving her way over to one of the windows. She reaches down and gently opens it.

“Unlocked!” she calls back to us.

I slump against the torn couch.

“I can't believe we didn't check the windows. How dumb can you get?”

“It's not your fault, honey,” my mom says consolingly. “I'm the one who opened it. It's not right to expect you to think of everything. Don't worry. I'm calling a company to come and clean all this up.”

I'm sitting at our family dining table with Isabel and Caleb, drinking lemonade. Caleb has his sketchbook open, idly doodling, while Isabel has been flipping absentmindedly through the pages of the Purely Provence catalog. “So…who likes the Purely P?” she asks.

“That would be my dad,” I admit. “He's really into it.”

“Wow!” She's come to page 385. “Looks like your father likes this.”

“Yeah,” I say, “he's totally in love with it.”

“That's so funny,” she says. “We have this table.”

Of course.

I figure, why not make a joke out of it. “My dad is gonna die when he hears this,” I say. “Do you think he can come visit it sometime?”

“It's in storage,” Isabel says, being little Miss Literal as usual. “We didn't think it went with California, you know?”

Oh, snap.

My turn. “That's cool,” I say. “I always wondered who actually bought copies of French farmhouse tables.”

“Oh, no. Ours isn't a copy, ours is the original,” Isabel says, and then laughs that grown-up laugh that is just so irritating.

“Oh?” says Caleb skeptically. “How did your table end up in the Purely Provence catalog? Did someone just happen by your house one day and see it and say, like, ‘Can we borrow your table?' ”

Isabel doesn't even look up. It's like this is the most fascinating photograph she's ever seen.

“Not exactly. The man who owns the company went to Harvard with my father. He's always loved that table.” Then she adds casually, “Like your dad, Ted, I guess.”

Game, set, and match—Isabel Archer.

“I've never actually seen it in the catalog. They did a really nice job.” Then she closes it with a loud bang and stares at me in irritation.

“What's up, Isabel?” I ask.

Isabel sighs. “We're kind of stuck, aren't we? We still don't know what 1405 refers to.”

“
We?
You're sticking around after today?”

“Of course!” she laughs. “I certainly want to be there when you open the box!”

“
If
we open the box,” Caleb moans.

“I have a feeling Ted's going to figure this out,” Isabel says simply. Her gaze is suddenly so strong and direct I have to look away.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But all we have to go on is this,” I mutter, pulling out the lighter.

“Uncle Ted's lighter. You didn't tell me you found that.” My mom has come in with a tray of drinks and cheese puffs.

“Sorry, Mom.” I shrug. “But with all the excitement, I guess it slipped my mind.”

Mom reaches out and takes the lighter from me. She rubs it and smiles.

“You can have it if you want,” I suggest. “You know, as a way of remembering him.”

My mom's face hardens. “This lighter helped kill him. He must have smoked three packs a day, each cigarette lit with this thing. I never want to see it again.”

Then she brightens. “You know who probably would like it? Mr. Yamada! You never did get those matchbooks, did you? I'm going to call his daughter.”

We watch her leave the room, then turn to each other.

“Isn't that the guy who she said was your great-uncle's most loyal customer?” asks Caleb, his voice rising with excitement.

“And she said he visited him every day in the hospital, right?” adds Isabel, nodding.

I grin. “Yep, he's the guy. If anyone knows what 1405 means, I bet it's him.” I call into the kitchen, “Mom, do you think it would be all right if Caleb and Isabel came with me to give Mr. Yamada the lighter? They'd like to meet him too.”

Mom sticks her head out the door. “I'm sure that would be fine, but let me check with his daughter first.”

I hear my mom chattering on and on with Mr. Yamada's daughter. It's all arranged. Mr. Yamada would be delighted to meet me and my friends. He has no grandchildren and always loves being around young people.

Mom comes into the room with a strange expression on her face.

“What's up?” I ask. “I thought I heard you say it would be fine.”

“Yes…,” my mom begins. “But when I offered to come too and say hello, she said he would prefer to meet with you kids alone. Isn't that odd?”

Isabel puts down her lemonade and takes a cheese puff. “Perhaps you remind him too much of your uncle, and meeting you would be too painful?”

“Maybe…,” Mom muses.

“Or maybe he's just a cranky old guy who just does weird things,” Caleb suggests.

“We'll let you know,” I promise.

Mom laughs. “It's all right. I've got a few errands to run near their neighborhood. We made plans for me to drop you off at two, and then I'll swing by an hour later. Will that be okay with your schedule, Isabel?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Gerson,” Isabel replies, taking another cheese puff. “Father isn't free to pick me up until four anyway.”

Isabel never calls her dad “Dad.” It's always “Father.” She's so weird.

As we head out, I nudge Caleb. “Look at my fingers.” They're covered in cheese-puff dust.

“So what?” says Caleb, holding up his own orange fingers. Then I nudge him to look at Isabel's.

Spotless.

“B-but—I saw her eat them,” Caleb sputters. “How can anyone eat cheese puffs without leaving telltale cheese-puff dust?”

“It can't be done, dude. It's like she's not human,” I say darkly.

The Yamada home is all the way on the other side of Laurel Canyon, in Gardena.

“We're almost there,” Mom announces. “There's one thing you should know about Mr. Yamada. His daughter told me he was in Amache, and ever since then he's cold no matter how hot the weather is. So his room isn't air-conditioned, and don't be put off by the fact that he's wearing a sweater.”

“I'm sorry, but what is Amache?” asks Isabel.

“They still don't teach much about the camps in school, do they?”

“You mean the internment camps?” Isabel asks. “Of course. We read
Farewell to Manzanar.
It was incredible what this country did to their own people.”

“Yes, well, Amache was the camp in Colorado, and Mr. Yamada has never recovered from the winters there,” Mom says quietly. “That's why he's always cold. Always. Even in the middle of summer.”

As Mom turns onto a quiet street shaded with palm trees, Isabel looks at us.

“What?” demands Caleb.

“You really should read
Farewell to Manzanar.
I mean, it's like your history, Ted. I thought all schools taught it.”

“Maybe we're getting it this year,” I guess. “You know, Purisma isn't some fancy private school.”

“I would have thought you'd have read it anyway. Over a hundred thousand American citizens put into camps during World War Two just because their parents came from Japan.” Isabel leans forward. “Was your family interned, Mrs. Gerson?”

“No, only the most powerful and influential, about two thousand out of the more than one hundred and fifty thousand Japanese Americans in Hawaii were interned. The rest of us were spared, but only because there were so many of us,” Mom says simply. “They were such a big part of the workforce that removing them would have ruined the economy, especially since there was so much recovery to do after Pearl Harbor. People on the mainland lost their homes, their businesses, everything. Most people in Hawaii…didn't.”