I slide the door open, but Zak can’t take his eyes off the markings.

“I don’t know. But I think it’s all linked. The locks, the writing on the wall, and this. It has to be.”

Zak stands up and flops on my bed. “You think it was Amy?”

I picture her in here. This was her bedroom for years. She would have known every last bit of it. She either did it…or she saw it.

I should be telling Zak about our date, but, instead, I’m already wondering if Amy tricked me after all.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I say. “Why would her parents lock her in here but send her to school? Why would she come home every night if she was trapped?”

Zak stares at me, his mouth open and his eyes drawn back to the wardrobe he’s just climbed out of.

“We need to know who lived here before her,” I say. “We need a timeline. Then we can figure out who did this.”

“How do we get that?”

I look out of my window at Amy’s new home and the two cars in the driveway. “We ask someone who knows.”

45

When I ring the doorbell, I hear a banging inside, then a muffled, “Who is it?”

“It’s Tom!” I shout. “From next door!”

There’s more banging, then a latch slides back, and the door inches open.

“Hello,” Mrs. Hawkins says. “Who did you say it was?”

“Tom. I live next door.”

She opens the door wider and grins. “No packages today, I’m afraid.”

“That’s not why I’m here. I was wondering how long you’ve lived here.”

She pauses, then says, “Nineteen sixty-two. That’s when we moved in.”

I swallow my excitement because this is exactly what I was hoping for. Mrs. Hawkins has lived here for ages—almost as long as our house has been standing.

“Do you remember who lived next door…in our house?”

“Of course. The Morgans. They lived there for forty-odd years.”

“Did the Morgans have children?”

Mrs. Hawkins shakes her head. “It was just the two of them. They were good neighbors. We never had any complaints.”

“Who came next?”

Mrs. Hawkins rests her free hand against the wall and says, “If you want a complete history, you should come in. I’m not as strong as I used to be.”

She turns and wobbles toward her living room, and I watch her slide slowly into a chair. She pushes a button on the side, and the footrest groans upward.

“If you want a cup of tea, you’ll have to make it yourself. My sweeteners are on the side.”

She smiles, and I feel guilty for using her. All I want is information. But she seems happy for the company, and I make a silent promise that this won’t be the last time I visit.