I grab a few loose CDs lying around the desk just in case they’ve got files of interest on them. Unfortunately, I don’t see any kind of computer. Either Sam took it with him, or someone else has already made off with it. With a stack of magazines under my arm, I head out of Sam’s room and through his house, glancing at pictures of his family that line the walls. Sam’s dad is in some of them, staring back at me through thick glasses that look a lot like the ones Sam always wears. I barely remember Malcolm Goode from school parties and stuff when I was a kid. I look down at the pile of crap I’m technically stealing from his son’s room.

“Sorry,” I murmur, and then head to the backyard—through the back door this time.

Outside, I freeze: there’s movement in the woods near the end of the yard. I think about running, but if there isn’t anything there, that’ll cause me to look more suspicious. Just as my palms start to sweat nervously, an owl flies out of the woods. I exhale, telling myself that’s what I must have seen.

The side of the house casts a shadow that I disappear into, pressing myself up against the vinyl siding. I stand there for what feels like a long time watching the road, trying to see any movement or lights—anything that might suggest that there’s a black sedan ready to run me down. But there’s only the breeze and the sound of birds and insects somewhere out in the woods. Finally, I start back to my truck. I’m silently congratulating myself on a job well done when I realize the only thing that means is that the crazy person who was after us the other day was in fact after Sarah. That she’s probably being held captive by them right now.

Or worse.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I STAY UP MOST OF THE NIGHT SENDING PICTURES and scans of the magazines to GUARD. He works his internet magic and comes back to me with several phone numbers for the people who publish They Walk Among Us. He asks if I want him to call, but I take responsibility for it. I’m the one who’s now pored over every column in every issue Sam had, hoping that something—anything—will give me a clue as to where the people holding Sarah might be. Or if not them, where John and Six and Sam might have escaped to. If I can find them, they can use their superpowers to rescue Sarah, no problem.

No problem. I repeat this over and over in my head, hoping that eventually I’ll believe it.