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“Just a few books,” Isabel says, holding out what she's taken.

“Books!” exclaims Mom, giving me an approving look. “You really are a
reader
!”

Kill me now.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” says Isabel, sounding as if my mom hasn't said the stupidest thing possible.

“And you've got something too, I see!” Mom continues, turning to me, pointing to the shopping bag. “What's that?”

“Some old magazines,” I lie.

Luckily, my mom isn't paying attention. She seems to not want to spend any more time at her uncle's apartment than is absolutely necessary.

The deep hum of the Archermobile can be heard from up the block, and after he parks it, Graham bounds out, as lively and well groomed as a champion golden retriever.

“I'll see you guys tomorrow morning, when the Goodwill people are here,” Isabel calls over her shoulder, trying to intercept him. But Graham is too quick for her.

“That's what I like to hear!” Graham beams happily, then turns to my mom. “She needed a little convincing to come back, but I felt—”

“Father. Let's go.” Isabel, for the first time, actually looks uncomfortable.

“Righto. We're off! Great seeing you again, Amanda!”

As they pull out, I can see Isabel sitting, arms crossed, her mouth set in a tight line.

At dinner tonight, all the talk is again about Isabel. And St. Anselm's, her old school.

“Lila called today!” exclaims Dad. “She says there are a bunch of kids at Harvard from St. Anselm's. Apparently it's one of the finest private schools in New York.”

“Well, if
Lila
is impressed…,” I snort.

“Yeah, she kept going on about how all these celebrities send their kids there, and how all these other famous people actually went there…fashion designers, actors, novelists….Not only that, but half the people who write for the
New Yorker
are school parents: authors, artists, you name it.”

“I wonder why Graham is sending her to La Purisma,” my mom muses. “I mean, it's not exactly—”

“Hey! La Purisma is a great school!”

“Since when do
you
like your school?” asks Mom pointedly. “I seem to remember someone describing it as a waste of time,” she adds, wiping her chin.

“Maybe Ted is getting his priorities straight this summer,” my dad says, smiling at me.

“Yeah, maybe I am,” I respond, gazing at my dad with what I hope looks like admiration and maturity.

“I see!” Mom regards me with a weird grin on her face I swear I've never seen before. “Speaking of your priorities, Isabel seems like a very nice girl.”

OMG.

“For crying out loud, Mom!” I say. “Can we give this a rest!”

“All right, I'll change the subject,” says Dad agreeably.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully.

“Aren't you going to thank me for inviting Isabel to help out? It sounds like that extra pair of hands really made a difference.”

“Thanks for changing the subject,
Dad,
” I answer. “Yes, having an extra person was great. Especially when Mom called and said the Goodwill people are coming in the morning.”

“Don't tell me you got everything packed up this afternoon?” Mom asks incredulously.

“Well,” I say, trying to sound casual, “ ‘the prospect of being hanged focuses the mind wonderfully.' ”

Dad's eyes pop open. “I am impressed. Nice quote.”

“I don't play computer games
all the time,
” I say modestly.

Dad nods appreciatively. “So do you know who said it?”

“What?” I answer.

“I just wondered if you know who said the original quote.”

Darn! I should remember this.

“That's okay,” Dad says gently. “It was Samuel Johnson. But it's great that you know it. Did you learn that from Isabel?” he adds, as if somehow this is going to make it better.

“If he did, that's fine,” says Mom, beginning to clear away the dishes.

I get up to help. Anything to get away from this conversation.

Dad, ever the professor, calls after me, “Oh, and you can tell her when you see her, the actual quote is ‘Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' ”

My mom turns, remembering something. “By the way, did you find anything for Mr. Yamada?”

“Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Yamada!” Mom says, her teeth set in frustration. “The man who used to visit Uncle Ted every day? His daughter wanted you to find something from the store?”

“Ohhh…right…his old customer…” The matchbooks! I was so focused on the game, I totally forgot to take them!

“Was there anything in that shopping bag?” Mom asks.

“Nah, it's just magazines, like I said,” I answer quickly. “I'm sorry, Mom. But we put aside some matchbooks for him. When the Goodwill guys come, we can get them.”

“I hope so. She really sounded like he wanted you to bring him something.”

I wipe my hands. “I'm totally beat. I think I'll head upstairs to bed.”

“I'm sure you are. I can't remember the last time you did so much hard work.”

Mom kisses me on the forehead. “Yuck. Take a shower first. You stink.”

Dad has been reading and gets up and stretches. As I walk by, he gives me a quick hug.

“You look dead, kid. No computer games tonight, huh?”

“Nope. I need to be up in the morning to leave with Mom. She's meeting the Goodwill people with us at nine sharp.”

“Sounds good. Sweet dreams.”

I slump into my room and fall face-first onto my bed. My eyes wander over to the shopping bag I oh-so-carefully hid in my closet, holding the box that will not open.

Without even thinking, I grab my laptop, turn it on, and find my way to the gaming site I bookmarked.

A small shiver goes up my back as I watch the welcome screen for
The Game of Ted
appear.

There it is. Again. For real.

I reach into my pocket and fish out the lighter. I place it on the desk and rub it.

For luck.

I log on and once more play through the game.

This time, all the books are there. Just as I remember from the walkthrough, the game ends with the discovery of the box and the lighter.

But now something is blinking in the corner. A new box has appeared.

“Coming Soon!
The Game of Ted 1.2
!” it announces.

I click on the link, but nothing happens.

Coming soon? But how soon? And what will it be?

I am still turning all this over in my mind as Mom and I pull into the apartment complex the next morning.

Caleb and Isabel are already here. She's reading and he's sketching. Both look up with relief when they see me.

“We were supposed to find a memento for your great-uncle's old friend Mr. Yamada,” Isabel starts.

“How did you know that?” I ask, amazed.

“I was there when your mom said it, remember?” Isabel says impatiently. “I meant to look for something nicer than just some old matchbooks, but I guess with all the other…things…going on, it slipped my mind. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Gerson.”

Mom regards Isabel with a mixture of awe and adoration. “You are the most
thoughtful
young lady I think I have ever met. That is
so
nice of you, Isabel!”

“She even remembered his name!” I mutter to Caleb. “How does she do that?”

“I'm telling you, man, superpowers,” cracks Caleb as he shuts his sketchbook and stands up.

A giant truck with
GOODWILL
printed on the side pulls up to the apartment entrance.

Two men get out of the cab and lumber toward us.

“Hi!” my mom says, extending her hand. “I'm Amanda Gerson. We talked on the phone?”

“You didn't talk to me. I just drive and pick up the stuff. You talked to Mrs. Harris. We're looking for a Mr. Waka…Waba…Wabakay…”

“Wakabayashi. That was my uncle.”

“Okay, lady, we're good to go. So where's the stuff at?”

My mom points upstairs. The littler guy squints.

“There ain't no pianos or stuff like that up there, right? 'Cause we don't take pianos down no stairs.”

Mom assures them there are no pianos.

“And everything's in boxes or bags, right? We don't take nothing loose,” he adds.

“Everything's either in cartons or bags, or set aside to be dumped,” I pipe up. “We made sure of that.”

“Shall we, gentlemen?” my mom says, and gestures to the stairs.

The two men follow her up the stairs. Caleb, Isabel, and I take up the rear.

Mom puts the key in the lock and opens the door. The big man peers in.

“What th—”

He beckons to his buddy, who takes a quick look, turns around, and heads back down the stairs.

As he passes us, he shakes his head. “You shouldn't waste people's time like this, you know?”

We scramble up the stairs and look into the apartment.

Mom is in the middle of the room, trying to talk to the big man, her eyes wide. “I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding. I'm so sorry….”

“Well, when you figure it out, you call Mrs. Harris,” he says as he storms off.

It's total chaos. The place is a shambles.

Every bag has been ripped open; the furniture is cut to shreds, the newspapers strewn all over the place. The drawers in the desk have been pulled out and broken.

Someone has been searching for something. Something they want very badly.

My mom is shaking, she's so mad. “Is this what you call clean?” she fumes. “I took time off from work, brought those men here, and this is what—”

“Mom!”
I yell. “Are you
serious
? Do you think this is how we left the place?”

“Mrs. Gerson,” Isabel says calmly. “There has been a break-in. We need to call the police.”

My mom sits down. She looks around the room. “I'm sorry….I just…Of course…”

She takes out her phone and dials 911. As she waits, almost to herself, she murmurs, “Who would do such a thing?”

“Enemies,” Caleb declares grimly.