We hurry along the sidewalk up one block and then turn a corner. There we see it: a big sign that says Country-Wide Travel Bus Station.

A gust of cold wind follows us through the front door. A woman looks up from the ticket counter and frowns.

“What you kids doing here?”

“Just here to pick up our grandma’s suitcase,” I call to her, holding up the locker key.

“See that you give me that key before you leave,” she mumbles.

Noah and I trot over to the long row of lockers. Some are tall, some are smaller. They all have numbers at the top.

I look at the number on the key. “Twenty-five,” I read out loud.

Slowly, we walk along the rows. On the top row are odd numbers: 3, 7, 9; even numbers on the bottom.

The numbers get bigger: 11, 12, 14, 15. My heart speeds up. So do my feet.

But then, there’re no more lockers.

Were we wrong all along about it being a locker key? I feel sick with disappointment.

“There’s more lockers over here,” Noah says, waving from around a corner.

Sure enough, across from the bathrooms are two more rows of lockers.

16, 17, 20, 21, and finally, 25.

We stand in front of the closed door, just looking at it. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: What will we see when we unlock it? I remember an old game show my grandma Bess used to watch where people had to guess what was behind a huge curtain. Was it a fabulous prize like a boat or new living room furniture? Or was it a goat? I would have liked the goat, actually.

“No time like the present,” I say.

I take a deep breath. I slip the key into the lock and turn.

Click!

I pull open the metal door. We both lean in to look.

Crammed inside is a small black suitcase, the kind with wheels on it.

“Huh,” Noah says.

“Yeah,” I say. I reach in and pull out the suitcase. What’s inside? More clues? More mysteries? A million dollars? Underwear?

“We’ll take a look, see if there’s anything worth keeping, then lock it back up.”

“We can’t,” Noah says. “You just told that lady we’re picking up the suitcase for our grandma. It’d look weird if we didn’t take it with us.”

“Plus, she said to return the key,” Noah reminds me.

Crud. Mama always says one lie leads to another, until you’re all tangled up like in a spider’s web.

“Okay, you’re right. We’ll have to take it with us.”

We wheel the suitcase back over to the ticket office. The wheels go bu-bump, bu-bump on the tile floor.

I smile and slide the key across the desk. “Here you go,” I say as friendly and confident as I can. “We found our grandma’s suitcase.” I’m glad she can’t see over her desk to my shaking knees.