I thought about Deputy P.T. Dent. “He knows the truth, doesn’t he?” I asked. “He knows I’m no one’s auntie.”

  Sarah told us she can’t hide anything from P.T. “So?” She nodded to me. “You’ll go along with this, right? You’ll do this?”

  “I guess.” I looked at my father. “Until other arrangements are made?”

  Dad smiled. “We have plenty of room, girl.”

  I blinked at all the Truman-junk. “At least we used to.”

  ***

  As I got up to clear the coffee cups away I asked after Ryan Webb, and Sarah reported he was still in a coma.

  “His parents must be beside themselves,” Bobby said.

  “No kidding,” she agreed. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if it was one of my boys.”

  “What was Ryan even doing in that car?” I asked and headed to the kitchen.

  “Get back here!”

  I turned to Sarah. “What?”

  “What do you mean, what was he doing?” she asked. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing.” I gave up on tidying and sat back down, and Sarah gave me a withering look.

  “Don’t believe the rumors. You got it?”

  “Hello. I don’t get any of this.”

  “I don’t get it either,” Joe said. “What rumors?”

  “The stupid rumors.” Sarah directed her glare at Joe. “Judy didn’t have a boyfriend. And she sure as heck wasn’t dating that kid.”

  “Dating!?” Joe, Dad, and I all spoke at once. “How old was Judy?” Dad added.

  “Thirty-three. And yes, it would have been criminal behavior.”

  We asked how the rumor got started, and Sarah told us Judy must have needed some computer help.

  “Ryan’s the computer whiz kid of Hilleville,” she said. “And they live right next door to each other.”

  “On Maple Street, right?” I asked.

  Joe was still watching Sarah. “Maple Street’s a posh neighborhood.”

  “What are you implying, Wylie?”

  He insisted he wasn’t ‘implying’ anything. “I’m sure your friend was an upstanding citizen.”

  “We’re all sure of that,” Dad said gently.

  “Speaking of upstanding citizens.” I caught Sarah’s eye. “You’ll stick up for me, won’t you? Just like you’re sticking up for Judy? You know, before anyone carts me off to jail?”

  “Prison,” she said.

  “You are not going to jail or prison,” Joe told me. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Personally, I wasn’t so sure of that. I reminded him the deputy sheriff knew the truth.

  “P.T. will keep your secret,” Sarah said.

  “Our secret,” I corrected. “But what about the social worker? She threatened to check up on me.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Ms. Mauve is a nincompoop. She’ll never get it.”

  “What if she does?” I persisted.

  “Then I’ll know about it,” she said. “I work for the sheriff. I know everything before it happens.”

  “So you’ll pull strings to protect me?”

  Sarah snorted. “Not quite, but I promise I’ll give you a heads up. That way you can grab the kid and make a run for it.”

  ***

  Sarah made a run for it before I strangled her. Doing a great imitation of Cosmic Cow, she took a flying leap over all the Truman-junk and landed at the door.

  Joe took one look at me and jumped up also. “I’ll walk you out,” he told her.“Coward,” I muttered, and by that time my father was halfway up the stairs.

  “Bedtime for the old man!” he said.

  “Coward,” I muttered again.

  I told myself I am not a coward and took a good long look at the piles and piles of junk littering the living room. My eyes darted ceiling-ward, and I thought about Notz the cat. And Truman the kid.

  “I am not a coward,” I said out loud, and stood up to make a dent in the mess.

  I loaded the coffee cups into the dishwasher, half-heartedly swept the kitchen, and made an attempt to clear a pathway through the living room before giving up and heading to bed.

  Somehow I ended up in Truman’s room.

  Charlie thumped his tail, and the cat yawned, but I mostly stared at the kid. He must have sensed my presence. He opened his eyes and jumped, and Cosmic Cow went flying.

  “Sorry!” I held a hand to his chest and bent down to rescue Cow with the other. “You probably forgot where you were,” I whispered. “You’re with me, Cassie, remember?”

  “I want my momma.”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  I lay down with him and cuddled him close. “She’s gone, Truman,” I said gently. “Your momma died today.”

  He cried a little, and I held on tighter, and Charlie and Notz snuggled in.

  “Did Ryan die, too?” Truman asked eventually.

  “No,” I said. “But Ryan’s resting. He’s resting so he can get better.”

  More crying.

  “Things will be easier tomorrow,” I whispered, and eventually the child cried himself back to sleep.

  I waited to hear more peaceful breathing before standing up. Which is when I noticed the dog, cat, and cow staring at me.

  “Well. Things will be easier tomorrow,” I insisted. Because let’s face it, how could they be harder?

  Chapter 8

  “It’s quite a pickle,” Dad said. “A Flickle pickle,” he added, and the child giggled.

  The child?

  Well, that was new, even if the general circumstances were all too familiar. As usual, my father was in my room before the crack of dawn, discussing some absurd detail of Chance Dooley’s latest absurd pickle. And as usual, I kept my eyes firmly closed, trying to sleep.

  “Girl! How can you sleep at a time like this?”

  “Because that’s what normal people do at a time like this,” I said, and Bobby let Truman know I’m always grumpy in the morning. At least I assume he was talking to Truman, since Charlie already knew this basic fact.

  “Perhaps Cassie has a right to be testy,” Dad kept on talking. “The Spaceship Destiny’s been ransacked!”

  “What’s ransack?” Truman asked.

  “Messed up,” I said, my eyes still closed. “Was someone looking for something?”

  “Probably.” Dad admitted he hadn’t quite figured out the details. “But whatever the reason, this ransacking business has left Chance Dooley feeling a bit testy. And testy doesn’t begin to describe Evadeen’s mood.”

  Evadeen Deyo, Ms. Mild-Mannered herself, feeling testy? That might be worth waking up for. I opened my eyes and jumped about ten feet.

  There was a cat. On my bed.

  “I’m awake now,” I sang. I sat up and patted the covers, and Charlie hopped aboard.

  My father was in his usual rocking chair at the foot of the bed, and Truman sat on his lap.

  A child. In my bedroom.

  I shook my head, and must have moved my feet at the same time, because the stupid cat pounced. That got Charlie curious, and he climbed over me to see what was so interesting.

  “Sit!” I ordered, and the dog sat on top of me. Notz, on the other hand, looked at me like I was nuts and started kneading the covers at my ankles. I wiggled my feet, hoping to shake him off.

  “You’re not listening, girl.”

  I looked up. “Evadeen Deyo. Testy.”

  “Indeed.” Dad nodded. “Especially since she’s the one who insisted Chance call in the Celestial Intelligence Agency. It’s enough to make anyone testy.”

  Charlie and I laughed. “The CIA?” I asked.

  Truman asked what’s that, and I took a wild guess that the CIA was the official law enforcement agency of the Hollow Galaxy.

  Mr. Sci Fi Author nodded.

  “Is Evadeen in trouble?” Truman asked.

  Another nod, and Bobby promised he’d explain everything at breakfast. He scooted the little guy off his lap. “We have a big day ahead of us,” he said. “Good thing we Baxters love a big breakfast.”

  “He-Baxter,” I told the kid and pointed to my father. “He loves a big breakfast.”

  “Bacon and eggs?” Dad asked.

  “Scrambled?” Truman suggested.

  “Scrambled it is. Just like the contents of the Spaceship Destiny.”

  ***

  Scrambled, ransacked, and generally a mess.

  That about sums up the state of our living room that morning. I tripped over—something, then tripped over the cat, but eventually made it to the kitchen. Truman had found the broom I’d set aside in the previous night and was chasing Charlie around the kitchen with it.

  “A giant space sweeper,” he told me as Notz joined the game.

  “Sit!” I said.

  Charlie sat. The cat didn’t.

  I tripped over him yet again but at least I landed near the coffee pot. “Whatever happened to cats being skittish?” I mumbled, and Dad said something annoyingly cheerful about how the entire household was “so enjoying” the beautiful autumn morning.

  Yeah, right. I poured two cups of coffee, added ridiculous amounts of milk to both, and handed one to my father. I poured a glass of juice for the child, and breakfast was served.

  Don’t tell my father, but the bacon was delicious. I ate enough to tip the scales over a hundred pounds, and Truman also seemed to have recovered an appetite.

  “What’s up with the Celestial Intelligence Agency?” I asked as the stupid cat hopped on my lap.

  “Why’s Evadeen ornery?” Truman asked.

  “Commissioner Dwayne Dingle, is why.” Dad shook his head and glanced at Charlie. “The top dog at the CIA thinks the ransacking must be Evadeen’s fault.”

  “Well no wonder she’s testy,” I said.

  Dad sighed. “Commissioner Dingle told Chance Dooley this ransacking business is exactly the kind of thing he had to expect, considering the company he keeps.”

  I frowned at Truman. “How. Insulting.”

  Dad sighed again. “I hesitate to say anything against an interstellar law officer, but Commissioner Dingle doesn’t put much stock in female mechanics. He’s a bit old fashioned.”

  “A bit?” I reached for more bacon. “We’re talking about the fifty-first century. Commissioner Dingle is only about three thousand years behind the times.”

  “Some preconceptions are hard to change,” my father said. “And of course his main issue with Evadeen isn’t her chosen occupation. It’s where she’s from.”

  I cringed at Truman. “She’s a Whooter.”

  “What’s a Whooter?”

  “A Whooter from Whoozit,” Dad said, and the kid caught on right away.

  “Whooters live on Whoozit?” he asked.

  “That’s right.” Dad smiled. “Evadeen Deyo’s home planet is located in the most remote corner of the Hollow Galaxy—far, far beyond the Crystal Void.”

  “Whooters are hicks.” I moved Notz to the floor and got up to clear the plates. “They live in the sticks, just like us Vermonters.”

  “Whoozit has a bad reputation.” Dad handed me his plate and offered some backstory even I didn’t know—Whoozit had been a settled as a penal colony. “Which means all Whooters are descendants of criminals.”

  “But that doesn’t mean all Whooters are still criminals,” I said as I loaded the dishwasher. “How far back are we talking about?”

  “Oh, eons and eons,” Dad said. “Whoozit was colonized at least twenty generations ago.”

  “There, you see?” I closed the dishwasher and stood up. “Evadeen’s a good guy, not a bad guy.”

  “Well, girl. You know that, and I know that—”

  “I know, too,” Truman piped in.

  “We all know,” Dad agreed. “But not Commissioner Dingle. He’s gotten Evadeen all flustered.” He leaned back so I could refill his coffee. “And Evadeen’s rather like you when she gets flustered.”

  I glanced at Truman. “She has a lot of excess energy.”

  “Which she’s using to help Chance sweep out the Destiny,” Dad said.

  “Sweeping!” Truman hopped down from his chair and grabbed the giant space sweeper, which kept him and the animals occupied while I washed the frying pan.

  I was almost thinking our Monday really was going to be easier than our Sunday when I heard a car in the driveway. I looked out the kitchen window.

  Ms. Mauve? I glanced at the clock on the stove. 6:49 a.m.

  Insert colorful words… Here.

  Chapter 9

  “What a nice surprise!” I lied and tried to peek inside Ms. Mauve’s satchel for handcuffs. Do social workers arrest people? I didn’t think so—

  “May I come in?”

  “Oh!” I looked up and waved her inside, but she stopped short at all the Truman-junk. “We’re still working on it,” I said.

  “No worries.” Ms. Mauve told me her house is always a mess. “And I don’t even have children.”

  Maybe, but even so I turned her around and steered her toward the kitchen, and introduced her to my father. “Social worker,” I mouthed in case he’d forgotten, and then I pointed her toward Truman. “And as you can see,” I said. “Truman is fine!”

  I could have wished the kid wasn’t sweeping the floors at that moment, but Ms. Mauve didn’t seem to notice. She tilted her head. “Is that bacon I smell?”

  “Grandpa Bobby made us eggs,” Truman said.

  Grandpa Bobby? I stared at Charlie. Did the kid just call my father Grandp—

  Dad coughed, and I snapped out of it.

  “Would you like some?” I asked.

  Ms. Mauve declined.

  “How about coffee?” Dad suggested, but she declined that also. “Too much caffeine makes me jittery.”

  Earth to Ms. Mauve, some of us were already jittery. Despite that fact, I poured another cup for myself, and we sat down. Truman dropped his broom and climbed onto Dad’s lap, the cat chose mine, and Charlie sat on my feet, and we all waited expectantly as Ms. Mauve pulled a laptop computer from her satchel.

  At least it’s not handcuffs, I thought to myself as we watched her fumble with the thing. She had trouble from the minute she clicked it on. Truman crawled down from Dad’s lap to help, and she showed him the program she was trying to open. The kid tapped at something and got it started.

  “I thought you didn’t like gadgets,” I said as he returned to my father.

  “All children love gadgets.” Ms. Mauve told me. She clicked furiously at her keyboard. “I have yet to work with a child who doesn’t.”

  I scowled at the child who had refused to touch my cell phone the previous day.

  “Now then.” She finally stopped typing and looked at Truman. “What have you and the Baxters been discussing this morning?”

  “Whooters!”

  ***

  Let’s just say, my father’s explanation of Chance Dooley’s latest Flickle pickle didn’t help matters. And at some point in describing the Cosmic Cow-Twirly Twine Twister piece of the puzzle, he must have noticed Ms. Mauve’s scowl. “You’re here to talk to my daughter,” he said.

  “That is correct.”

  “In private,” he added.

  “That is correct.”

  Oh. Goody.

  Dad scooted Truman off his lap and pointed to the garbage bags in the living room. “Let’s find you some school clothes,” he said and hustled him and the dog toward the stairs. For the record, I’d managed to get myself showered and dressed that morning, but kid was still in his Looney for Lake Bess sweatshirt.

  I watched them disappear, frowned at the social worker, and waited for—whatever.

  “I’m nervous,” she told me.

  Tell me about it. I sunk my hand into the fur at Notz’s neck. “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “You intimidate me.”

  Oh, please. What kind of game was this woman playing? I pointed to my hundred-pound self and told her I’d never intimidated anyone.

  “Au contraire,” she said and insisted my status as a local hero was very impressive.

  I assumed that status would change quickly once I was thrown in jail for kidnapping, but I sipped my coffee and listened to her tell me my choice of career was also intimidating.

  “I teach at Crabtree College,” I said. “It’s not exactly Harvard.”

  “No, but you are a full professor.”

  And since she’d mentioned my job, I decided to use it. I pointed to the kitchen clock and told her I needed to be moving along. “Is there a reason you stopped by?” I cleared my throat. “Before seven a.m.?”

  “Yes.” She tapped her laptop. “I need to ask about your family.”

  Oh, goody.

  ***

  “Your father,” Ms. Mauve said while I was making sure I hadn’t spilled coffee on Notz.

  I looked up. “Truman calls him Grandpa Bobby.” I spoke loud and clear. “You heard that, yourself, right? And he calls me his Auntie Cass—”

  “Your father,” Ms. Mauve interrupted, and I shut up. “Have you always lived with him?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, but I do need to understand the living arrangement.”

  I told her I’d moved in with Bobby the previous year and watched her type. A lot. “Is that a problem?” I asked again.

  “No.” Tappity-tap-tap. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Ms. Mauve stopped typing and looked up. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “When?”

  “When I was ten.”

  “I see,” she said and kept typing. “Siblings?”

  Damn! Was I supposed to have siblings? I tried to remember the convoluted Tripp-Baxter family tree Sarah and I had invented. No, it wasn’t even the Tripps. I was supposed to be related to Judy’s side of the family—the Abernath—

  “Dr. Baxter?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m an only child,” I said, and before she could ask me anymore pesky questions, I changed the subject. “May I ask you some questions?”

  She looked up. “Shoot.”

  I pointed to the ceiling. “Should he really be in school today?”

  Evidently, yes. Ms. Mauve told me to keep him in his normal routine. “Young children do best with a normal routine.”