I did not go to bed that night. Instead, I sketched. I measured. I marked. I gathered my tools.

  And then it was time to wake Ms. Scoggin. I would need a lookout.

  * * *

  I never wondered, before the fire, whether ghosts need to sleep. They do. At least, we did. And some ghosts—like Ms. Scoggin—are very grouchy about waking up before dawn and being led to the basement before their morning tea.

  “But why on Earth must you accomplish this task before sunrise?” she said, wiggling her bare toes on the damp basement floor. (Ghosts are impervious to damp.) She knew all about my invisibility problems, so I did not answer by saying, “Because when I am out in daylight, people are often seeing me!”

  Ms. Scoggin did not know that people sometimes even spoke to me, by accident. I can only imagine the long list of Criticisms she would have for a ghost who talks to people.

  But if I had not answered them, I would have felt very rude. Instead, I used the fewest words possible and got away before anyone had time to understand that they were talking to a ghost.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” I said to Ms. Scoggin, brandishing my hammer.

  She looked curious and scanned the basement. When she saw the cart of library books before us, she suddenly scowled. “I do hope you plan to reshelve these books, my dear! Reshelving is a priority. Imagine a reader in search of a book finding only a blank space—as if some bully has knocked out a tooth!”

  I reminded her, gently, that there was no library anymore.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” she said, waving at me impatiently. “I remember.”

  As I have said, the books before us, and the cart they sat upon, were all that were left.

  “I am going to take care of these books,” I told her. “It is time. That is my project.”

  “Good girl. How can I help?”

  You could have knocked me down with a bookmark. Ms. Scoggin was offering to assist me? I felt quite emotional. But, in fact, that was exactly why I had brought her down there.

  I asked her if she could whistle.

  She could.

  So we walked out into the night together. I pushed the cart over the grass, while the dear cat rode on top of the books, proudly facing front, as if he were sailing a ship.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  EVAN

  Evan thought it would feel a lot more satisfying to write “keys” on his list of clues. But it took only three seconds to write the word “keys,” and only another four to realize that 1) he had no idea what to do with these keys, and 2) finding keys wasn’t actually all that unusual. Now that he thought about it, he had found keys before.

  Once, he’d found a key in the town hall parking lot when he’d gone with his mom to pick up their summer pass to the town pond. And once he’d found a set of three keys, on a braided pink-and-green cord, under a chair in the cafeteria at school. What had he done with those keys? Just turned them in, to the nearest grown-up. Those keys hadn’t felt like mysteries. Maybe these keys weren’t a mystery.

  “What now?” Evan said, when he had escaped the thorns and shown the keys to Rafe. “We go around trying to fit these into doors?”

  “I don’t think that’s legal,” Rafe said. “And this one looks like it’s for a padlock.” He pinched the smaller silver key between two fingers.

  “So we look for padlocks?”

  Rafe thought. Then he said, “I’m not sure that’s legal, either.”

  * * *

  Things felt so different during the day than they did at night. With the sun shining, it seemed to Evan that the library fire was only a possible crime. Yes, there had been victims, but he couldn’t think of a motive. And the book said that, in a mystery, the villain’s motive was the second most important thing.

  The first most important thing, the book said, was the ending: Remember! If you are to satisfy your readers, justice must be done in the end.

  Evan liked the sound of that. He liked the sound of justice.

  But maybe there was no villain, and no real mystery, here. Maybe not all of life was a mystery.

  Even Mr. O’Neal could be wrong about things.

  * * *

  Mr. O’Neal’s class had library on Thursdays. As they approached the door, Evan read, as he always did, the quote painted above it in rainbow letters:

  We read to know we are not alone. —C. S. Lewis

  Ms. Shore, the school librarian, told them that, in honor of the second-to-last day of school, it would be an “open class”: They could talk without yelling, read on the floor, or get on the computers.

  Everyone lunged for the computers—it was like a panicked game of musical chairs. Rafe somehow grabbed two right next to each other. Evan gave himself a celebratory spin in his chair before putting his fingers to the keyboard. He typed H. G. Higgins. And hit “search.”

  H. G. Higgins is a pseudonymous author of American mystery novels. His first book, Assignment Accepted, was published in 2009, and he has published a bestseller every year since.

  “His first book wasn’t published until 2009,” Evan said.

  Rafe looked up from a baseball-stats site on his computer. “Who?”

  “H. G. Higgins. The book was returned on the night of the fire. In 1999. So there was no ‘H. G. Higgins, the famous writer’ when he borrowed that book. He was just H. G. Higgins, a random person!”

  “Wow, yeah. It couldn’t have been a joke—no one knew his name yet!” Rafe grinned. “I can’t believe it. No one famous ever comes here.”

  “He wasn’t famous, yet. That’s the point.” Evan was copying the information on the screen into his journal. “It doesn’t say how old he is. If we knew that, we could figure out how old he was when he was here. Twenty years ago. What if he was a kid?”

  “A kid called H. G.?”

  “I guess? What if he lived here?”

  “What does ‘pseudonymous’ mean?” Rafe said, frowning at Evan’s computer.

  “What?”

  Rafe pointed. “The kind of writer it says he is.”

  “Oh—I don’t know.”

  Rafe put his fingers on his keyboard. “Spell it for me.”

  Evan spelled it from the screen.

  Rafe clicked. “Okay … whoa.”

  “What?”

  “It means that H. G. Higgins is a fake name. A pen name, it’s called. For when the author wants his identity to be a secret.”

  “A secret? That makes no sense. If you were famous, wouldn’t you want people to know?”

  “Yeah. And why would someone need a fake name ten years before he became famous?”

  “I don’t know,” Evan said.

  Although he could think of one reason. Maybe, before writing mysteries, H. G. Higgins had decided to create one in real life. By starting a fire.

  Evan had the feeling he wasn’t going to get an answer to his letter.

  * * *

  Evan found Ms. Shore, the librarian, reading a magazine at her desk.

  “Where can I look up the real name of someone who is pseudonymous?” he asked, pronouncing it soo-doh-NY-mus.

  “It’s pronounced soo-DON-uh-mus. And it depends. Sometimes it’s common knowledge, sometimes it’s not,” she said. “Who are you wondering about?”

  “H. G. Higgins. I need to know his real name.”

  “H. G. Higgins? You want to know his real name?”

  “Yes. He writes mysteries.”

  “I am aware of that. But I’m wondering how you can be so sure that H. G. Higgins is a man.”

  Evan blushed. “Oh. I just thought—”

  “Exactly. You assumed. But you don’t know. And neither do I. Actually, I don’t know anything about H. G. Higgins, except that H. G. Higgins is probably very rich.”

  “I think maybe he—or she—lived around here, a long time ago.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “Is there someplace I could look? To find out if he really lived here?”

  “Without his real name? Can’t think where. We certainly don’t have anything here. And I doubt there’s anything on file at the History House. They only have a few things—just town history, mostly. I don’t think this qualifies.”

  Town history. “Do you think they might have newspaper articles about the library fire?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. There’s got to be something about the fire over there.” Then she leaned back in her chair and squinted at him. “Your father is Edward McClelland, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “He used to work there, that’s why.”

  “At the History House?”

  “No. At the library. When we were in high school.”

  “You know my dad?”

  “Well, I did. When we were kids, we were in a book club together.” She paused. “Sort of.”

  * * *

  Evan went back to Rafe, who was now doing tomato research at his computer.

  “No information,” he told Rafe.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Rafe said, scribbling notes about slug deterrents. “I’ll be a lot more useful tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Evan repeated.

  “Of course. Tomorrow we graduate.”

  “And?”

  Rafe grinned at him.

  “Do you mean … the expiration date?”

  “We’re graduating, aren’t we? That means we won’t be in elementary school anymore. We’ll be middle schoolers.”

  Evan still didn’t share the excitement about being middle schoolers.

  But he was happy for Rafe.

  * * *

  Little known truth: Rafe was brave.

  In fact, it was Rafe’s bravery that had made his parents so worried in the first place.

  The pre-K kids at Martinville Elementary played in the pre-K yard, which had a fence around it so that no one could wander off. It was just a fenced-off grassy area with a lot of rubber balls, hula hoops, and a plastic playhouse in it. Everyone loved the playhouse. They climbed around inside, and on top, forcing themselves through the windows, inventing games, and assigning one another characters. For some reason, Evan was usually a “dad” or a “storekeeper.” He’d wanted to be one of the many wild “little brothers.” Or Spider-Man.

  Anyway. One day, a great shrieking came from inside the playhouse during pre-K recess. Evan was standing at one of the windows (he was being an ice-cream man). The shrieking came from Bruce Melon, who had just sneaked in (he was being an ice-cream store robber) when he noticed a black snake coiled up in one corner. Evan and Bruce hurled themselves through the nearest windows and onto the grass outside while Rafe dived in through the door to investigate.

  Seconds later, he emerged, holding the snake in both hands. He carried it all the way to the fence and lowered it down to the grass on the other side while everyone stared (even the teacher). “Garter snake!” he shouted. “A baby. I think he was trying to hide.”

  Rafe’s parents made their first special rule for him that very afternoon. The rule was “No picking up snakes.” Soon to be followed by many others.

  “They’re worriers,” Rafe had told Evan. “They can’t help imagining every bad thing that could happen. The rules make them feel a lot better.”

  So Rafe followed the rules. But, in third grade, he had asked his parents about an expiration date.

  “Expiration?” His mother’s forehead wrinkled instantly. “Is the milk sour? Don’t drink it!”

  One of the rules was never to eat or drink anything without first checking the expiration date on the package. In fact, that was where Rafe had gotten the idea.

  “An expiration date for the rules,” Rafe said. “Someday, I do want to cross the street by myself. And climb trees. And walk on the grass without shoes and socks on.”

  His parents looked uncertain. “Well, I guess the rules can’t last forever.” His father’s forehead was also scrunched up now, as if he were imagining that Rafe might run straight out the door and start picking up snakes.

  “But, if there is an expiration date, it should be very far away,” his mom added.

  “How about … middle school?” Rafe said.

  Both of his parents relaxed visibly. “Middle school!” his father said. “Yes. Very good. The rules will expire when you are a middle schooler.”

  And his parents smiled at each other, because at that time, middle school seemed so far away.

  Most of the kids at Martinville Elementary had forgotten all about the snake. Evan had not forgotten. He knew that when Rafe did not cross streets and did not climb trees, he was only taking care of other people (his parents, this time). And Rafe didn’t need anyone else to know it.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Evan said, “so does this mean that tomorrow, after graduation, we can start looking for doors to open with the keys? Even if it’s slightly illegal?”

  “Tomorrow,” Rafe confirmed, clicking over to a website called Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Fertilizer but Were Afraid to Ask. “Right after I get back from the dentist.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  AL

  It took only a few hours to construct my little library. While I worked, Ms. Scoggin acted as my lookout, and the dear cat was her assistant. As the sky grew light, Ms. Scoggin began to sigh and ask about breakfast, but I was very firm that breakfast would be afterward. And she was a good lookout. Twice, she whistled, and I had just enough time to hide behind some bushes, leaving my work in a pile while someone passed along Main Street. Luckily, it was still too dim for most people to notice a pile of boards and books on the town green, and no one came to investigate.

  My project turned out well. Even Ms. Scoggin approved. “I do miss our library, though.” She had a sad look.

  “I miss it, too,” I told her. “Very much.”

  “A library is the place for you,” she said as we walked toward home. “A nice big one.”

  “And leave Martinville? Who would take care of you and Mr. Brock?”

  “Mr. Brock and I will do just fine,” she said. “Just as soon as you take your place in the world. Perhaps this is a start.” She smiled at me. I waited for a Reminder or a Criticism. But she continued to smile.

  We had climbed up to our porch, where I dropped my saw, my hammer, and my extra nails.

  “Thank you for your help,” I told her. And I extended a fist to the dear cat, who rubbed his cheek against my knuckles. I held the front door open for him. (Ms. Scoggin had no use for doors, of course.)

  But the dear cat would not come inside. Nor did he settle himself on the swing. The dear cat, who had never before ventured out alone beyond the top step of our porch, was now trotting down the stairs and marching off, tail up, back toward the town green.

  “Cat!” Ms. Scoggin cried out. “Cat!”

  But he did not even turn around.

  “He’ll be back soon,” I said, but to be honest, I was shaken.

  “I’ll start getting breakfast ready,” I said.

  “Isn’t it Monday?” Ms. Scoggin began to count on her fingers. Mondays were the day I visited Grantville, to renew Mr. Brock’s book, buy our few necessities, and practice my invisibility. But I felt worn out. I watched her count and hoped she would not do it correctly.

  “It is Monday!” she announced triumphantly. “You will do your errands. And I will fetch breakfast for Mr. Brock and myself.”

  “You? In the kitchen?”

  “Go upstairs to change,” she said, waving me toward the stairs. “And then you may take the last apple muffin to eat along the way.”

  She had a very generous look on her face, and so I thanked her, although of course I had made the muffins myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  MORTIMER

  Mortimer’s fourth day as guardian of the library was momentous.

  Early in the morning, the boy with the question-mark face appeared with his very loud friend. As things turned out, Mortimer’s help was needed. The boy with the question-mark face got himself quickly turned around in the high bushes near Mortimer’s beloved lost library, and then had trouble seeing the only thing there of any particular interest. Mortimer stood upon it until the boy finally noticed.

  “Thanks!” the boy had said.

  “You are welcome,” Mortimer said. In truth, he was feeling quite overwhelmed by memories of Petunia. There was no library anymore, but Mortimer had been standing exactly where the old blue doors had once been. And those blue doors would always remind him of his fierce sister, Petunia, because of the time she got stuck on top of them.

  He could almost hear her voice. “Chase me, Mortimer. Chase me!”

  All your fault, his heart said.

  * * *

  And then, Mrs. Anne Baker, whom Mortimer knew well, brought her daughter to the little free library. A small suitcase swung from Mrs. Baker’s hand. Her daughter held her other hand, although she could mostly walk by herself now.

  “Hello, friend,” Mrs. Baker said to Mortimer. “I heard you were the guardian of our new library. I brought you something.” She held out a kitty treat. She often brought him a few when she led tours at the History House.

  “Thank you,” Mortimer said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. Mrs. Baker always seemed to know what Mortimer was saying. He liked that.

  “Book!” Mrs. Baker’s daughter said. She dropped her mother’s hand and pointed with both hands—one aimed at the red wagon full of books, the other one at Mr. Gregorian’s egg crate.

  “Yes, sweetie. Books!”

  “Book!” the girl repeated, now pointing at Mortimer.

  Mrs. Baker laughed. “That’s a cat. Me-ow.”

  From the small suitcase, which she had opened on the grass, Mrs. Baker removed a folded blanket. She shook it out and they settled on it: Mrs. Baker, her daughter, and Mortimer. That’s when Mortimer saw what else was in the suitcase: more books.

  Everything was nicely arranged, with the small book spines all facing up. And inside the top of the suitcase, the word “POETRY” had been painted in big letters and surrounded by several small paint handprints.