I shivered, thinking that I could do with a little Florida sunshine right about now. It felt as though it was getting colder up in the tree house, and it didn’t help that the wind was poking its way down my back and chilling my neck. I was just adjusting the blanket so I could half sit on it, half use it as a covering, when I spotted some movement near the cabana.

With a shock, I realized it was Carlos. He was climbing out of his bedroom window—one of the windows that had earlier that day been coated with fake blood, but had since been washed clean. He was wearing what looked like army fatigues, and he carried something small and black in his hand that looked like a boom box or a radio. With my heart pounding, I watched as he quietly pulled the window shut and then set off across the lawn.

He was coming straight toward me! As he got closer, I peered down at him, wondering what he could possibly have in his hand. A camcorder, I finally realized. Carlos was carrying a camcorder, and he was heading for the tree house.

I didn’t know what to do. My gut feeling was that he had come out here to do a little surveillance of his own. Why else would he be bringing a video camera? Unfortunately, if he climbed up in the tree, pulled himself through the hole, and came face-to-face with me, he might nearly scream his head off, alerting the entire family to our presence here.

With no other choice, I silently positioned myself next to the hole across from the tree trunk, so that as he emerged into the room his back would be toward me. Kneeling, muscles taut, I waited until he was almost completely through the opening, and then I grabbed him, clamping one hand over his mouth and wrapping the other around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. I jerked us both backward, safely away from the hole, as his camera dropped onto the wooden floor. He thrashed about wildly, trying to get loose, trying to kick me, but unable to make a sound. I held on tight, surprised at the strength of an 11-year-old boy, whispering as urgently as I could, over and over, “It’s Callie; I won’t hurt you…calm down.” When he finally stopped thrashing and began listening, I spoke more softly.

“It’s Callie. Don’t make any sound. Do you understand?”

He nodded, my hand still firmly over his mouth.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m an investigator, Carlos. I’m out here on surveillance. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Again, he nodded. Under my right arm, I could feel his heart pounding against his chest. I had very nearly scared the poor boy to death.

“I’m going to let go now,” I whispered. “Don’t make any noise.”