The long way home

44%… 45%…

Now I could hear other noises down below in the kitchen. Cabinet doors banging as they opened and closed. Mrs. Sherman was putting the rest of the groceries away, the stuff that wouldn't spoil. What would she do when she was finished? Would she come upstairs?

More sweat was gathering on my forehead and my neck. I couldn't figure out what to do. There was no closet in the room, no place to hide. The only way out was through the window. It wasn't that high. I could probably lower myself down and drop without breaking my leg. But the window was shut. If I opened it, it was sure to make a noise, a rumble. Then Mrs. Sherman would know I was here. On the other hand, if I waited and she came upstairs, I'd have no time to get away.

What then?

I looked at the screen. Fifty percent. Half done. I wiped the beaded sweat off my face and neck with my hand, but I felt more sweat dampening my armpits, streaming down my sides.

And what if Mrs. Sherman caught me-what about that? I'd just have to get past her somehow and run for it. What else could I do? But then Sherman would know I'd been here, trying to get into his computer. If he suspected I'd downloaded Private Eye, he'd be able to trace me the second I used it, find me at the Ghost Mansion. The program would be useless-and if there was something in Sherman's computer that would help me find out who killed Alex, it would be lost to me.

More noises from the kitchen below. I couldn't figure out what they were at first. Then I could: paper crunching. She was folding up the grocery bags, probably saving them to use for recycling and stuff like my mom did. A few more cabinets opened and closed.

Then the footsteps started again.

Mrs. Sherman came back down the hall, back toward the foyer. My stomach twisted. I was sure she was going to come upstairs this time.

I glanced at the screen: 61%… 62%… How complicated a program was this? It seemed to be taking forever.

Mrs. Sherman reached the foyer and-just as I feared-she started up the stairs. I heard her softened footsteps on the carpeted runners as she climbed.

My heart was beating so fast now, my head felt light. But I had to do something. Where I was, at the desk, at the computer, she'd be able simply to turn her head and see me when she reached the second-floor landing. Even if I hid myself from sight, she'd be able to see that the computer was on.

I had to close the door-or at least close it a little. She might notice that. She might remember that it had been open. But it was a chance I had to take.

She was about halfway up the stairs when I started moving. I was at the door in a second. I figured I had to swing the door about two-thirds of the way shut to block her view of the room from the top of the stairs.

I swung the door in as quickly as I could.

It creaked.

The footsteps on the stairs stopped.

There was a moment of silence. I sensed Mrs. Sherman out there on the stairway, listening.

I pressed myself close to a bookshelf, out of sight of the hallway. I stood as still as stone. I felt my breath trapped in my throat as if it were a lead ball. I felt my heart hammering as if it wanted to break free.

"Bill?" Mrs. Sherman called. "Bill, are you home?"

Another moment of silence went by. Come on, I thought. Houses creak all the time. It was nothing. Just the wood settling. I tried to force the thoughts from my brain into hers.

Maybe it worked. I don't know. But the next moment, Mrs. Sherman started coming up the stairs again.

I heard her footsteps reach the landing. Then they stopped. Was she looking this way? Would she notice that the door had been shut?

I stood where I was, pressed close to the bookshelf, barely breathing, all heartbeat and sweat and waiting.

Another footstep-this one coming toward me.

Then the doorbell rang.

The next moment, Mrs. Sherman's footsteps were headed down the stairs again.

I practically leapt away from the wall, leapt back to the computer.

Eighty-five percent of the program had loaded.

Come on! I thought frantically. Come on! I wanted to strangle Josh for giving me such a slow program. It was all my fault for not thinking there might be a Mrs. Sherman, but that didn't matter. I couldn't strangle myself, so I wanted to strangle Josh.

Downstairs, I heard the door open. I heard Mrs. Sherman say, "Oh, hi!" in a friendly voice.

A man answered her, "How you doing? I just need you to sign for this."

It was the mailman. I'd seen him coming toward the house.

"Nice day to work outdoors," Mrs. Sherman said. I could tell she was making conversation while she signed whatever he needed her to sign.

"A lot better than some, that's for sure," the mailman answered.

I watched the numbers on the computer screen climbing: 90%… 92%… 93%…

"There you go. Thanks," I heard Mrs. Sherman say.

"You have a nice day now," said the mailman.

Then the numbers on the screen took a sort of leap- right to 100%. The last bit of the Private Eye program had loaded.

I heard the door shut downstairs. I heard Mrs. Sherman tearing open a package in the foyer.

Moving as fast as I could, I opened the computer's disk drive. Recovered my disk. Slipped it into the pocket of my fleece with one hand and turned off the computer with the other.

I heard Mrs. Sherman's footsteps moving again-but she wasn't coming back up the stairs, she was heading back down the hall, carrying her package toward the kitchen.

I rushed out of the room. Rushed to the top of the stairs. I went down as fast as I could, keeping on the balls of my feet to stay silent, praying the runners wouldn't creak beneath me.

I could hear Mrs. Sherman in the kitchen when I reached the bottom of the stairs. I ducked quickly into the living room. Now she was coming back my way again, headed up the stairs again.

I heard her on the upstairs landing. Heard her moving down the hall toward her husband's office.

And I was moving too. Moving through the rooms until I reached the back door. Moving out into the yard. Moving around the side of the house to the front.

Moving across the lawn to my car, just as fast as I could go.