The top edge of the carousel’s collapsed roof came into view. He angled out, though he was too far to clearly see Bree or Coral. If they were talking, he could not hear their voices, and this was good. He hoped to God this meant they could not see or hear him.

Then he was past the carousel roofline, heading northwest on an angle farther up the slope. If this was not officially the Blue Ridge Mountains yet, it was damn close. It was plenty hilly here. His breath came short.

There was no fence around Funtime proper. He had to guess how far he needed to go to get around the old gold-panning site. In the aerial pictures, it had been two matched squares of dirt, wood-framed, behind the carousel. Gold-mine attractions like these were often nothing but large planting boxes full of sandy earth. He and Bets had taken Cara to one up near Dahlonega when she was little. The owners seeded the loose soil with souvenir “nuggets” and let kids pan until they got something. The pits did not take up a lot of room. He must be past them now.

He angled back the other way, skirting the back edge of Funtime. According to Mrs. Denton, there had once been a path leading directly from the gold mine to the hidey-hole. He scanned for gaps in the trees that felt deliberate, but the woods were thinner here. Any of the spaces through the trees could be parts of a former path.

He turned back up the slope and pressed on, no longer running. Now he was searching. There should be a cleared space up nearby, the remains of the Dentons’ old garden. Past that was the hidey-hole, which might be hard to see. He hadn’t been able to see it at all on Google Earth.

He felt that it was close. He also felt his unease rising, the smell of danger. He’d missed something. He was so tired. He felt that he’d aged years, as if the last two days had been a shortcut straight to middle age.

The earth was red with clay, the spring leaves and needles shading everything. He pulled himself up a small, steep incline. It leveled off into a shelf, and when he stood, he found himself in the open.

The garden. It was on a rare level place, the hill rising up again behind it. Over half of it was still skirted by the remains of a low rail fence. Some rails were missing. Other sections had been pulled over or coated by blackberry vines. Just to his left, a rusty gleam of silver caught his eye. An old bale of chicken wire, lying on its side.