THAT EVENING I slipped on a light jacket. “Going out, Mom,” I called, then went out the door.

I’d just gotten to my car when I heard, “Shels?” Her silhouette was in the doorway. “Where are you going?”

“Just out.” I immediately regretted that I hadn’t been more specific. It sounded made up and feeble.

“Out where?”

“To Roman’s. I won’t stay late.”

Mom was quiet. I couldn’t see her expression. She closed the door.

Whit was waiting for me in the dark parking lot behind the studio, with two small flashlights. He gave me one. “You have the keys?” he asked.

I nodded, and we walked toward the back door. “Doesn’t it feel like we’re in a movie?” I whispered.

“All we’re doing is going into your dad’s studio.”

“At night with flashlights?”

I was just about to slide the key into the back-door lock when I noticed a flat piece of plastic stuck in the doorjamb. The kind of plastic that milk containers are made out of. Someone had put it there to keep the door from locking.

I stiffened and whispered to Whit: “Think someone’s in there?”

He reached past me and slowly pushed open the door. “Let me go first.”

I followed him inside, my nerves tingling and heart rattling. The building was quiet and dark, and we flicked on our flashlights. As we made our way slowly down the hall toward the photo studio, Whit whispered, “Usually, when someone puts something like that in a door, it means they’ve left and want to be able to get back in later. So let’s make sure we keep our ears open in case they come back.”

Still, he shone his flashlight into the kitchenette, the broom closet, even the bathroom, just to be sure. If anyone had been there, they’d gone.

We went into the photo studio, and I swung my flashlight at the cabinets lining the wall.

Thump!

The unexpected sound came from behind me. I spun around just as Whit collapsed to the floor … and a dark figure sprinted out of the studio.