There’s an email there. From the Sender. He’d last asked if she was Anya. The only answer is:

Are you ready?

Grant feels a strange surge, a mix of fear and excitement. Like the Sender has been some stranger he’s repeatedly played against in an online video game, giving him hints, clues, all to solve the ultimate puzzle. For a moment he feels like he’s won…something valuable—what he needs to win the whole game. The Sender knows what’s happening. So he writes: Ready for what?

To help your family. To help the people who love you.

YES, he writes.

Your mother says she'll tell the truth. I’m going to send someone you know to bring you to me. You can trust them.

He doesn’t trust anyone right now. But he writes: OK who is coming?

There’s no immediate answer. Then: go to our tree.

At least he’ll get his answer as to who this is. He’s scared. He goes to the kitchen, and after a moment’s thought he takes a steak knife, the kind his parents use only when they actually serve steak, and he carefully tapes it just above his sock, hidden by his jeans. This feels foolish and silly, but it feels stupid to go defenseless.

He slips out the back door, down to the greenbelt. The quiet among the trees is nearly deafening. He heads toward the tree, which still has ribbons of yellow police tape around it.

Then a strong hand closes on his arm. He looks up to see Steve Butler, a smile trying to creep onto his craggy face. “It’s all right, Grant. I’m Mr. Butler. I live down the street at 3308. It’s OK.”

“I don’t know you.”

“My wife and I know Iris. And we knew Ms. Roberts. It’s OK.” He eases his grip on Grant’s arm, which doesn’t reassure Grant. “We’re supposed to take you to your mother. She really wants to see you.”

“My phone’s not working,” he says, and then Steve Butler says, “I know,” which in the moment strikes Grant as so odd. “We have to get you past the press, past the police out there in front of your house.”

Grant nods. This makes sense.

“This is my wife,” Mr. Butler says as an introduction. Now Grant sees the woman, bundled in a coat, stepping out from behind a tree, flicking on a smile for him. “We’re going to take you to your mother.”

“Are you the ones leaving stuff for me in the tree?”

“We were asked to do that,” Mrs. Butler says. Now they’ve both got ahold of him and they’re hurrying him along, deeper into the greenbelt. Past his house. “Your mother is at our house and we’ll figure out how to get you out of here without the press and police seeing.”

“Why…?”