31.

Timothy tripped backward and was about to scream, “Get away from me!” when he heard Abigail’s voice say, “Didn’t mean to scare you.” Suddenly, Ben flickered and disappeared. In his place stood Abigail.

Timothy blinked and exhaled. He slowly reached out and poked her shoulder. She was solid. Good. “You … shouldn’t sneak up on people,” he said, shaking the phantom from his mind’s eye.

“I, uh, just wanted to let you know the microfiche machines are free,” said Abigail, clutching a pile of papers. She eyed him suspiciously, then glanced at his bag on the floor near the open door. “I followed the chlorine smell. What is this place?” She reached out and touched the pane of glass where Dr. Hesselius’s name had once been painted. “Oh my gosh,” she whispered.

“His office,” said Timothy.

“You mean, it was right above my head the entire time?” Her face went pale.

Timothy nodded.

“But what’s with …?” She gestured to the tarp.

Timothy shook his head. “I think …” He paused, unsure if Abigail would understand Ben’s Order-Chaos theory. “It’s complicated,” he answered. “The important thing is that we’re closer to an answer.” Abigail began backing away, crushing the papers against her chest. She looked like she had last night, just before she’d run away. “Oh, come on, Abigail, you can’t do this by yourself,” he said. She still seemed unsure. “Look around,” he added. “This isn’t just about your family.”

Abigail surveyed the room. After Timothy showed her the strange gray flag, she was confused too. Finally, he led her to the wall with the photo of the lighthouse.

As she examined the writing, he noticed another frame filled with old-fashioned baseball cards sitting on the bookshelf next to the wall. Names were printed on the cards underneath the players’ photos, but Timothy couldn’t read them through the thick layer of crud.

“Timothy, what’s—?”

“Hold on,” he whispered, leaning closer to the bookcase. He grabbed the frame from the shelf, cleaned the dust from the glass, then noticed three familiar names in the bottom right corner. In order, they were the men who played second, first, and third bases on this team. He gasped.

“Tell me what’s going on,” said Abigail. “What are you looking at?”

Timothy showed her.

“Baseball cards?” she said, skeptically. “So what? According to the articles I found, Dr. Hesselius was a well-known collector of Americana. As a historian, that was one of his special interests.”

Timothy smiled. “Nothing more American than baseball, is there?” he said. “Check out the bottom.” When Abigail read the names, she dropped the papers she’d been holding. As she bent down to retrieve them, Timothy looked closer at the portraits and whispered, “Carlton Quigley. Bucky Jenkins. And Mr. Leroy ‘Two Fingers’ Fromm.”