chapter eleven

“How ‘bout a ride to work today?” My dad’s face was hidden behind The Gazette business section.

“Nah,” I said as I popped a piece of bread into the toaster. “I’ll take my bike. I’ve got stuff to do on the way.”

My dad didn’t ask what stuff. “Remember,” he said, “no biking after dark. We were worried last night.” He’d put the newspaper down next to his plate, but I could tell he was still reading.

I had the feeling I was supposed to apologize for worrying them, but I didn’t feel like it. Dad still hadn’t apologized to me. As I spread raspberry jam on my toast, I started feeling guilty for making my parents worry. They had a lot on their minds lately. “Sorry,” I muttered under my breath.

Dad nodded.

When my mom came in, her index finger was pressed up against her lips. Which meant we were talking too loud.

My dad looked away from the newspaper. “Are they still sleeping?” he whispered. “Both of them?”

Mom collapsed into the nearest chair. “Both of them,” she said with a sigh. I didn’t think it was worth pointing out the dried baby spit on the collar of her housecoat. She reached for the coffeepot.

Dad blocked her hand. “Maybe you should go back to bed, Adrienne.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I’ve got too much to do.” She took the lid off the sugar bowl. “Shoot, no more sugar.”

“You don’t have to call me ridiculous,” said Dad.

“You don’t have to be so sensitive,” Mom snapped back.

I watched them glare at each other. Things were getting worse and worse at our house. I tried to calculate how many years till I could move out. Seven, maybe eight. I wasn’t sure I could wait that long.

“We should think about getting a housekeeper. Even for one or two days a week,” Dad said.

Mom winced as she gulped her coffee. You could tell she didn’t like the taste of it without sugar. “Not until we can afford it.”

It was only when I was biking along the lakeshore that I realized Mom and Dad hadn’t even mentioned Elmo, or asked how the search was going.

I’d expected Sapna, but not Rodney. They were sitting on a bench outside the mall. I’d phoned Sapna when I got home the night before to tell her I needed her help again.

“I like feeling useful,” she’d told me. “That’s how I feel when I help my great-uncle. That poor man works too hard. Especially for someone his age.”

“Hey, Phantom, whatcha doing here so early?” I asked Rodney. “Don’t tell me your mom’s already out of groceries.”

“She had an er-pointment,” Rodney said.

“A-ppointment,” Sapna corrected him.

“Whatever,” I told them. “Look, I need to fill you two in on the plan. I’m headed up there,” I said, raising my eyes to the second floor of the office building.

Sapna frowned. “The building’s not complete. There’ll be no one there but construction workers. Why would they have your bird?”

“Rodney noticed lights up there last night.”

Rodney’s chest puffed up like a sparrow’s. “What do you want us to do?” he asked.

“Just keep an eye out. In case.”

“In case what?” Rodney wanted to know.

“In case, you know, something happens... or I take too long.”

Rodney’s eyes had turned big. “You’re not going to disappear, are you?”

“Of course not,” Sapna said, patting him on the shoulder.

As I walked toward the office building, I turned to look back at the mall. Sapna got up from the bench. “I’m going to check on things at Tandoori Palace,” I heard her tell Rodney. “You keep watch until I’m back. Is that clear, superhero?”

There weren’t any workers on the scaffolding, but once I got inside the building, I heard hammering coming from upstairs. The air smelled like white glue.

The ground floor had walls, but there was a gaping hole where the elevator was going to be. I looked around—past piles of two by fours, and bags of cement—until I spotted a stairwell. I stood still when the hammering stopped; when it started up again, I made a run for the stairwell.

I’d come up with a story in case someone found me. It wasn’t very good, but hey, I was under pressure. I’d say I’d had a fight with my dad and that I’d run away. In a weird way, my story felt true. My dad and I might have had a fight if I’d told him all the stuff that was bothering me. That he didn’t seem to care about Elmo or about how I was doing. That he was distracted all the time. That he wasn’t the dad he used to be—the one who’d opened the first Four Feet and Feathers.

The stairs were made of black metal, and I could imagine the racket I’d make if I ran up them. So I walked super slowly, taking one at a time. I was headed to the corner of the building overlooking the parking lot.

Light streamed in onto the stairwell, but when I got to the second floor hallway, it was almost completely dark. I let my eyes adjust. A row of doors lined both sides of the hallway. The only light came from the cracks under the doors.

Now that I was upstairs, I realized I hadn’t thought any further ahead than this. Then I remembered Mr. Singh’s advice: one ingredient at a time. Careful to make as little noise as possible, I started down the hallway. Then I heard voices.

Men’s voices.

I ducked back into the stairwell.

“I don’t like the idea of staying too long in this place,” a gruff voice said.

“None of us do, Lyle,” a second voice answered. You could tell he was trying to calm Lyle down.

“We should have left town after the heist like we planned.” Then I heard a loud bash. Had Lyle punched a wall? I took another step back into the stairwell.

The word “heist” got my attention. Could they be talking about Elmo?

The hammering had started up again. Rat-tat-tat. I’d have to get closer if I wanted to keep listening in.

“Look,” said the man whose name I didn’t know, “the deal fell through. When Boss phoned yesterday, he said he’d have news soon. Said he thought we’d be outta here by the end of the week. On a plane to—”

The hammering got louder. I hadn’t heard where they were going or what the heist was all about.

For a second, I saw myself the way someone like Lyle might see me if he found me here. Some kid crouched in the corner of a hallway, listening in on someone else’s conversation. I shivered.

The hammering stopped and with it, the conversation. But then I heard more noise from behind the door. They’d turned on a TV, and I could hear the laugh track from some sitcom. But there was another noise too. A faint noise I could just make out.

Squawking.

My throat felt tight, like I was wearing a shirt buttoned up too high. It sounded like Elmo’s squawk, only weaker. Wheezier. Sadder.

Part of me wanted to barge in right then. But then I remembered Mr. Singh’s advice and the way Lyle had punched the wall. One step at a time, I told myself.

The men were talking again. “The bird’s still squawking. That’s a good sign, at least,” the second guy said.

“It’s a wonder,” said Lyle. “Considering he hasn’t had a thing to eat since we took him.”

I tried to swallow, but it felt like something was stuck in my throat. Did I hear right? Elmo hadn’t had a thing to eat since they’d taken him—nearly four days ago? Didn’t they know a bird Elmo’s size could die if he went without food for that long?