Chapter Nine

It's a joke.

After a night spent awake thinking about it, that's the only explanation I can come up with for this second baseball, which is identical to the first.

I know it's a different ball because the one the lawn guy found yesterday remains in the living room, where I showed it to Ragesh. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, I now stare at both baseballs, obsessing over who could have placed one in the yard unnoticed as I stood mere feet away. How did I not see them? Had I been so distracted by the woods and thoughts of Billy that I completely missed someone rushing through the yard, dropping the baseball along the way?

Beyond the mystery of who put it there is this question: Why? There seems to be no purpose behind it other than to remind me of Billy's secret message. Not that I need reminding. I remember it well.

So someone is playing a prank. A cruel one. Someone who knows Billy was taken from this yard—which, thanks to the internet, is everyone—and decided that the discovery of his body would be the perfect time to fuck with the person living here. Which happens to be me.

But, according to Ragesh, very few people outside the police know Billy has been found. Just me, Russ, Ashley, and whoever they secretly told. If they told anyone at all.

When you subtract those who don't know the meaning of the baseball left in my yard, that leaves only two people who could have done it: me and Billy.

As I go upstairs and take a shower, I consider what my next step should be. Since the appearance of the baseballs has occurred during nights when the lights mysteriously flicked on above the garages of Hemlock Circle, I assume the two are related. Perhaps whoever's leaving the baseballs is triggering the lights on their way to my yard. Still unknown is how they've managed to remain practically invisible while doing it. Along with who they are and why they're doing it.

The only way to find out any of those things is to catch them in the act. Luckily, I have an idea for how to do that—not to mention a friend who can help.

I dress quickly, head downstairs, and grab my phone and car keys. I'm halfway to the garage when the doorbell rings. I reverse course and head to the door, determined to tell whoever it is to go away. But when I open it, I find Ashley on the front stoop with Henry standing a few feet behind her, a book in his hands.

"Hi!" she says in that too-bright way used by people who know they're intruding. "Are you doing anything right now?"

"I was just about to head to the store."

A frown crosses her face. "Oh, okay. Never mind then."

"Do you need help with something?"

"I need a favor, actually. A pretty big one." Ashley bites her bottom lip, stalling. "I need to take my dad to the doctor. He's…in pretty bad shape this morning. Normally, I'd leave Henry with Alice Van de Veer, but she's not home. And since he doesn't really know the Chens or the Patels, I was wondering if you could watch him for a few hours."

Behind her, Henry pushes his glasses higher onto his nose so he can gaze at me with undisguised skepticism. Which is fine, since I'm doing the same to him.

"I'm not very good with kids," I say.

"He's well-behaved, I swear," Ashley says. "You won't have any trouble."

"I've been told I'm inconspicuous," Henry adds.

It's still not a good idea. I have never been alone with a child since, well, I was one myself. And I'm daunted by the prospect of keeping Henry occupied—of keeping him safe—for even the smallest amount of time.

"Are you sure there's no one else?" I say.

Ashley comes closer and whispers, "I know this is sudden and, well, a lot right now. But what's happening to his grandfather is scary, and I want to shield Henry as much as possible. Please. You're my only hope."

I give Henry another wary look, thinking about when I was his age and how Ashley watched me every weekday until Billy was taken. If she could do it at fifteen, then I can manage the same thing with her son now.

"I guess I can watch him for a little bit," I say.

"It'll be two hours, tops. You won't even need to feed him lunch."

That's a relief, seeing how I have no idea what kids eat nowadays.

Ashley kneels in front of her son, straightening the collar of his polo shirt and smoothing the sleeves. "Ethan's going to watch you while I take your grandpa to the doctor. You two are going to go to—"

"Russ's sporting goods store," I say.

"Exciting!" Ashley says, feigning enthusiasm. "Isn't that exciting, Henry?"

Henry looks as excited as a cat facing a bathtub full of water. "Can't we go to the library instead?"

"I'll take you to the library when I get back," Ashley says. "How does that sound?"

"Acceptable, I guess." Henry turns to me, his shoulders slumped in resignation. "Well, Mr. Marsh, I guess I'm coming with you."

Ten minutes later, we're heading to Russ's store. The mood in the car is awkward at best. I'm at a loss over what to say to a ten-year-old I've met only once, and Henry clearly has no idea what to make of me. So we ride in silence, me staying five miles under the speed limit.

"You doing okay back there?" I say to Henry, who I relegated to the backseat because I'd once read it's safer there.

In the rearview mirror, I see him look up from the book he's reading. Part of the Goosebumps series. The Werewolf of Fever Swamp.

"I'm fine, Mr. Marsh," he says.

"You can call me Ethan, you know."

"I prefer to keep our relationship formal, if you don't mind."

I suppress a chuckle. Who is this kid?

"So, um, do you want me to call you Mr. Wallace?"

Only as I'm saying it do I realize that Henry might not have the same last name as his mother. I'm assuming there's a father in the picture somehow, even though it's clear he and Ashley are no longer together. Henry provides no clues, for his answer is a calm "You may continue to call me Henry."

"Right. Henry." I stall, trying to think of anything else I can say to this kid I barely know. "I can turn on the radio, if you want. What kind of music do you like?"

"My mom picks what we listen to," Henry says, which makes me pleased that some things about Ashley haven't changed. She always was fanatical about her music. Back when she was my babysitter, we spent a few afternoons by the pool at her house. I'd swim while she ate Fla-Vor-Ices and listened to the radio. Whenever a song came on she didn't like—anything by Ace of Base, for example—she'd switch to a different station with a prickly "That's enough of that shit."

I turn on the radio and find a nineties station playing "Creep" by Radiohead. Ashley would approve. After that comes "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" by R.E.M., another keeper. By song's end, we're at the store.

"Can I look around?" Henry says, still clutching his book as we enter.

I scan the inside of the store, overly cautious. "Sure, I guess. Just don't touch anything."

Henry looks at me, affronted by the suggestion. "Please," he says indignantly. "I'm not a nine-year-old."

Then he's off, disappearing around a table stacked with baseballs as I go look for Russ. Instead, I find a salesclerk, whose eagerness tells me I'm the first customer of the day.

"Need help finding anything?" she asks.

Like Russ, she's good-looking and fit, making me wonder if it's a requirement. That, in order to work here, you must be hale and hearty, like someone who not only owns a canoe but actually uses it on a regular basis.

"Is Russ here?"

The clerk's shoulders droop. I've literally just asked to speak to the manager. "I'll get him," she says.

I survey the store as I wait, ashamed to realize I've never been here before despite Russ owning it for almost a decade. I'm impressed. It's bigger than I expected, and stuffed to the rafters with things I didn't know people actually needed or used. Kayaks and canteens. Life vests and paddles. Backpacks the size of a toddler. Hanging from one wall is a row of mountain bikes.

The other side of the store is a riot of camouflage. A surprise. There can't really be a need for so much camo in a town as yuppified as Princeton. Yet here it is, covering everything from boots to hoodies to full-body suits that I assume come in handy only for hunting or jungle warfare.

Seeing all those splotches of forest green and dirt brown makes me think of the stranger allegedly seen roaming the neighborhood in camo the day before Billy was taken. The stranger no one found. Why did he feel the need to camouflage himself? Was he hunting in the woods? If so, what was he hunting?

"Ethan?"

I spin around to see Russ, whose bloodshot eyes and rough red skin signify a hangover. However many bourbons he had last night, they certainly did a number on him.

"What are you doing here?" he says.

"Shopping," I say. "I'm thinking about buying a camera for the backyard. One of those night-vision things."

"A trail cam?"

"Is that what they're called?"

Russ nods. "You strap it to a tree and it'll take pictures of the wildlife that passes by. Is there something in your yard?"

"Yeah," I say, not daring to admit the truth.

That it's not something coming into the yard.

It's someone.

Which I can't mention to Russ. He made it clear last night that I shouldn't let Billy's murder consume me—and that if it does, he's not going to join me.

"Well, I have plenty in stock," Russ says. "Everything from cheap basics to state-of-the-art. Follow me."

He leads me deeper into the store, past the bikes and kayaks and a mock campsite on a patch of fake grass. It's elaborate for a store display. There's a circle of rocks spewing red and yellow cellophane flames, two canvas camp chairs, a cooler, a grill, a lantern. Plopped in the middle of it all is an orange tent that looks exactly like the one I had as a child.

The one Billy was taken from.

I never saw it again after that day. The police took the tent and everything inside it. Our sleeping bags. Our pillows. Even the pair of Air Jordans I'd kicked off before going to sleep. All of it was evidence that, after endless inspection and examination, yielded nothing about what actually happened that night.

The tent in the store sets my pulse racing in what I can only assume is a fit of PTSD. Like the baseballs in my yard, its presence feels like a prank. I turn to Russ, wanting to accuse him of insensitivity at best, cruelty at worst. But I know he didn't set up this fake campsite just to mess with me. One, he wouldn't do such a thing and, two, he didn't even know I'd be coming to the store today. The tent being here is without a doubt a coincidence.

"It's cool, right?" Russ says. "Jen helped me set it up."

I stare at the display, its charm eclipsed by a sense of déjà vu. I barely notice how a fan hidden inside the fake firepit gently crinkles the cellophane flames. Or that a speaker shaped like a rock emits the light chirp of birdsong. All I can focus on is the tent itself and how I fear that if I close my eyes, there'll be a slash in its side when I open them.

Then the tent begins to move—a tiny quake that brings with it a confounding realization.

Something is inside.

The tent's front flaps start to open, and I brace myself for the sight of Billy. Not gone. Just misplaced for the past thirty years. Looking not like he does in those age-progression photos on his NamUs listing but exactly the way he did the last time I saw him.

While a little boy does eventually emerge from the tent, it's not Billy. It's Henry, who looks up at me uncertainly as he says, "Hi, Mr. Marsh."

"Oh, hey," Russ says. "You're Henry, right?"

"Hi, Mr. Chen."

Henry gives a little wave that Russ doesn't see because he's too busy eyeing me with confusion. "Is he with you?"

"Yeah." I do a little shimmy, trying to shake myself back to the present. "Ashley needed me to watch him for a few hours. I told him he could look around, but not to touch anything."

"I needed a quiet place to read," Henry says, holding up his book.

"It's all good," Russ says. "Do you like camping?"

"I've never experienced it." Henry stands and brushes his knees, as if he had just moved across the forest floor and not fake grass in the middle of a strip mall store. "But as a reading space, the tent is quite satisfactory."

"Good to hear," Russ says before clapping his hands together. "Now, let's look at those trail cams."

Henry and I follow him away from the campsite display to a shelf at the back of the store filled with boxes of trail cams.

"How much are you looking to spend?"

A very good question. Until my teaching job starts in a few weeks, I'm not exactly flush with cash. Then again, I don't want to buy something so cheap that it barely works.

"I guess I want the best one."

"Music to my ears," Russ says with a grin before taking a box down from the shelf and showing it to me. "Our top model. Most trail cams need an SD card to save the pictures on. This one comes with an app and uses Bluetooth to send 4K images directly to your phone. It's motion-activated, of course. A deer or something steps in front of the camera and, click, a picture of it goes right to your phone."

I scan the back of the box, reading the camera's features. It has night vision, which is a must, and a range of a hundred feet. Definitely enough to catch the person dropping baseballs there. The camera also has different settings, including one for direct sunlight and a sports mode with a faster shutter speed.

"How much is it?"

Russ quotes the price, which prompts a low whistle of shock from me. My first car cost less.

"I've got plenty of cheaper options," Russ says. "It all depends on what you're trying to do. Are you just mildly curious that something's coming into the yard? Or do you want proof of it?"

Definitely the latter. Yes, I could simply stay up and stake out the backyard all night. It's not like I'll be missing out on much sleep. But I might miss whoever's doing this. They've been surprisingly stealthy so far. Even though it costs a small fortune, this trail cam is my best hope at catching the person entering my yard.

"I need proof," I say. "I'll take this one."