I looked more closely at the photograph. It looked similar to the images of Grace and Jacob. The image of me matched the texture and tone of the rest of the photograph, and it was once more a full-body image that made it appear as though I was walking through the background of a Shady Oaks of the past.

Unlike the images of Grace and Jacob, however, there were a few more details I could notice in my own picture. In the photograph, I was wearing my raincoat. At first I assumed the picture of me must have been taken today. But then I noticed my cable-knit sweater, only just visible beneath my jacket. So the image must have been taken yesterday.

There was also, I noticed, a strange line running down my torso. It was fuzzy and I couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked like maybe something had gotten between myself and the camera lens.

“Nancy?” asked Bess. “What does this mean?”

We were still surrounded by people, and they were all still looking in my direction. So I nodded in the direction of the museum’s front door, and the three of us headed outside.

We stepped out the door, and it was now fully cloudy. It had also started to rain a little, and George and I pulled our jacket hoods up over our heads. Bess pulled out her polka-dotted umbrella and held it over the three of us. We were standing just to the side of the museum, but with the rain, I felt confident no one was going to hang around and listen in on our conversation.

“I think the photograph is a warning,” I said. “Whoever is behind all this has to be improvising now. I think whoever kidnapped Grace and Jacob wants me to stop investigating. Or I’m going to be next.”

“That sounds really bad,” said Bess. “Do we stop investigating?” Both she and George looked concerned by the idea that I might be the next target, and I could tell that Bess in particular was remembering being kidnapped herself, not too long ago.

“Actually,” I said, “this might be a good thing.”

George’s eyebrows shot up and Bess’s eyes widened. “Nancy,” said George. “How is this possibly a good thing?”

“The only reason someone would send us a warning was if we were on the right track,” I explained. “I still think I’m right about that door in the museum. And now I know how to get back there. I just have to ask someone for the door code.”

“Ask who?” asked Bess. “Who knows it besides Susan?”

I smiled. “Beverly DeSantos.”

Bess, George, and I began walking downtown, in the direction of the diner and the Bean and Briar Coffee Shop and all the other stores we had walked by while in Shady Oaks. As we walked, my friends tried to convince me that talking to Beverly DeSantos was a bad idea.

“Don’t you think Beverly DeSantos is behind all this?” asked George.