The front page also had two images. The first was a color photograph of the abandoned house where Billy and Brooke had been “held captive,” and it really did look like the cops had accidentally unspooled a dozen rolls of police tape and, instead of rolling it all back up, had just decided to hang it on anything in the vicinity of the possible crime scene. The second image was a reproduction of our poster, which honestly looked kind of fuzzy and unthreatening on the crappy newsprint. It had been reduced in size so you couldn’t really make out the phrase, but I still found myself silently mouthing along to it as I stared.

Hobart hadn’t even talked to Billy and Brooke because their parents said they needed privacy in order to recover from the shock of the experience. He had made a three-minute phone call to a retired professor of criminal justice at ETSU, who said that the poster was interesting because hands were not a typical symbol in satanic graffiti, although the children certainly complicated things. He said he’d need to spend more time with the words on the poster, look at the mathematical possibilities for converting the letters into numbers that might connect with 666. He said it also might be lyrics from a heavy metal song, which was typical for graffiti of this nature. He said his last real work had been on the prevalence of the occult in unsolved murder cases in the eighties, so he felt certain he might find some linkages to this poster.

“A reporter from Nashville is coming today to follow up on the story,” Hobart said.

“About a poster?” my mom asked, dumbfounded.

“About the possible implications of the poster,” Hobart clarified.

“This is stuff that people disproved a decade ago, Hobart,” my mom said. “Tipper Gore? Hobart, do you want to be like Tipper freaking Gore?”

“That’s different and you know it,” he told her. “Dungeons and Dragons and, I don’t know, Judas Priest, of course that’s bullshit. But there’s no source for this, okay? It’s a mystery.”

It suddenly dawned on me that it was eight thirty in the morning and Hobart was standing in our living room in the clothes he had worn the day before. That was more troubling to me than getting caught, that my mom had somehow drawn Hobart closer just as he was messing up the one thing that I cared about.

ZEKE SHOWED UP AT MY HOUSE THAT AFTERNOON WITH HIS grandmother’s copy of the newspaper.

“I can’t tell you how much I hate your mom’s boyfriend,” he said, and I instantly clarified that my mom was proudly single, an independent woman, and Hobart was just an acquaintance.