Popcorn. My stomach rumbled at the thought. I hadn't had any dinner. I was starving. I was starving, Birch Tree Cottage was out of control, and I still hadn't had a chance to open that envelope Pamela had given to me to give to Ruth.

Except, of course, that what was inside the envelope was really for me.

It was the idea of the ghost stories that did it, I guess. I couldn't shriek over the screaming, and I couldn't catch any of the kids who were racing around, but I could make it a lot harder for them to see. I stalked over to the fuse box and, one by one, threw the switches.

The cottage was plunged into blackness. It's amazing how dark things can get out in the country. They had switched off the lights along the paths through camp, since everyone was supposed to be in bed, so there wasn't even any light from outdoors to creep in through the windows—especially since the area we were in was so thickly wooded, not even moonbeams could penetrate the canopy of leaves overhead. I couldn't see my own hand in front of my face.

And the other residents of Birch Tree Cottage were suffering from a similar difficulty. I heard several thumps as the runners collided with pieces of furniture, and a number of people shrieked as the lights went out.

Then frightened voices began to call out my name.

"Oops," I said. "Power outage. There must be a storm somewhere."

More frightened whimpering.

"I guess," I said, "we'll all just have to go to sleep. Because we can't do anything in the dark."

It was Shane's voice that rang out scathingly, "There's no power outage. You turned out the lights."

Little brat.

"I didn't," I said. "Come over here, and try the switch." I illustrated for them, flicking the switch on and off. The sound was unmistakable. "I guess everybody better get into their pajamas and get into bed."

There was a good deal of moaning and groaning about how were they supposed to find their pajamas in the dark. There was also some bickering about the fact that they couldn't brush their teeth in the dark, and what if they got cavities, et cetera. I ignored it. I had found, in the utility kitchen, a flashlight, for use in the event of a real blackout, and I offered to escort whoever wanted to go to the bathroom.

Shane said, "Just give me the flashlight, and I'll escort everyone," but I wasn't falling for that one.

After everyone had done what he needed to do, ablution-wise, I reminded them all about the early morning Polar Bear swim, and that they had better get plenty of sleep, since their first music lessons would begin right after breakfast. The only time they wouldn't be playing their instruments, in fact, would be at the Polar Bear swim, meals, and a two-hour period from three to five, when lake swims, tennis, baseball, and arts and crafts were allowed. There were nature walks, for those who were so inclined. There even used to be trips to Wolf Cave, a semi-famous cave near the lake—semi-famous because up so far north, caves are almost unheard of, the glaciers having flattened most of upstate Indiana. But of course some stupid camper had gotten himself whacked on the head by a falling stalactite, or something, so now spelunking was no longer listed as one of the activities allowed during the kids' few short hours of free time.

It seemed to me that for kids, the campers at Lake Wawasee weren't allowed a whole lot of time to be … well, just kids.

When they were all in their beds, and had sweetly sang out good night to me, I took the flashlight with me into my own room. No sense adjusting the fuse box so that my own light would turn on: they'd just see it, shining out from under the crack in the door, and know I'd lied to them about the power outage. I took off my counselor shirt and shorts, and, in a pair of boxers I'd stolen from Douglas and a tank top, I consumed most of a box of Fiddle Paddle while perusing, by flashlight beam, the contents of the envelope Pamela had given me to give to Ruth.

Dear jess,

I hope this finds you well. Your camp counselor job sounds like a lot of fun.

Yeah, right, I grunted to myself. Of course it sounded like fun … to people who'd never had the displeasure of meeting Shane, anyway. The very feminine cursive went on.

Enclosed please find a photo of Taylor Monroe.

I shined the beam from the flashlight into the envelope and found a color studio portrait—like the kind you would get at Sears, with Sesame Street in the background—of a curly-headed toddler in overalls. OshKosh B'gosh.

Taylor disappeared from a shopping mall two years ago, when he was three years old. His parents are desperate to get him back. The police have no suspects or leads.

Good. A neat and simple kidnapping. Rosemary had done a lot of homework to make sure of this. She only sent me the cases in which she was certain the kid in question actually wanted to be found. It was my only condition for finding the kids: that they really wanted to be found.

Well, that, and maintaining my anonymity, of course.

As always, call if you find him. You know the number.

The letter was signed, Love, Rosemary.

I studied the photo in the beam from my flashlight. Taylor Monroe, I said to myself. Taylor Monroe, where are you?

The door to my room banged open, and I dropped the photo—and the flashlight—in my surprise.

"Hey," Shane said with interest. "What's that stuff?"

"Jeez," I said, scrambling to hide the photo and letter in my sheets. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"Who's the kid?" Shane wanted to know.

"None of your business." I found the flashlight and shined it on him. "What do you want?"

Shane's eyes narrowed, but not just because there was a bright light shining into them. They narrowed with suspicion.

"Hey," he said. "That's a picture of a missing kid, isn't it?"

Well, Pamela had been right about one thing, anyway. Shane was gifted. And not just musically, either, it appeared. The kid was sharp.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said.

"Oh, yeah? Well, what are you hiding it for, then?"

"Shane." I couldn't believe this. "What do you want?"

Shane ignored my question, however.

"You lied," he said, sounding indignant. "You totally lied. You do still have those powers."

"Yeah, that's right, Shane," I said. "That's why I'm working here at Camp Wawasee for five bucks an hour. I have psychic powers and all, and could be raking in the bucks finding missing people for the government, but I prefer to hang around here."

Shane's only response to my sarcasm was to blink a few times.

"Come off it," I said sourly. "Okay? Now why are you out of bed?"

The look of dark suspicion didn't leave Shane's face, but he did manage to remember his fake excuse for barging in on me, undoubtedly in an effort to catch me sans apparel. He whined, "I want a drink of water."

"So go get one," I said, not very nicely.

"I can't see my way to the bathroom," he whined some more.

"You found your way here," I pointed out to him.

"But—"

"Get out, Shane."

He left, still whining. I fished out Taylor's photo and Rosemary's letter. I didn't feel bad about lying to Shane. Not at all. I'd done it as much to protect Rosemary as myself. After my run-in last spring with the U.S. government, whose ideas about the best way to use my psychic ability had sort of differed from mine, Rosemary, a receptionist who worked at a foundation that helped find missing children, had very generously agreed to help me … um, well, privatize. And we had been working together, undiscovered, ever since.

And I wanted things to stay that way between us: undiscovered. I would not risk revealing our secret even to a whiny almost-twelve-year-old musical genius like Shane.

To be on the safe side, I put away Rosemary's letter and picked up a copy of Cosmo Ruth had lent me. "10 Ways to Tell He Thinks of You as More Than Just a Friend." Ooh. Good stuff. I read eagerly, wondering if I'd realize, just from reading this article, that Rob really did like me, only I had simply been too stupid to read the signs.

1. He cooks you dinner on your birthday.

Well, Rob certainly hadn't done that. But my birthday was in April. He and I hadn't really started … well, whatever it was we were doing … until May. So that one was no good.

2. He makes an attempt to get along with your girlfriends.

I only have one real friend, and that's Ruth. She's barely even met Rob. Well, not really. See, Rob's from what you might call the wrong side of the tracks. Ruth isn't a snob … at least, not really … but she definitely wouldn't approve of me going out with someone who didn't have college and a career as a professional in his sights.

So much for Number 2.

3. He listens to you when—

I was interrupted by a thump. It was followed immediately by a wail.

Gripping my flashlight, I stalked out of my room.

"All right," I said, shining the flashlight into one face after another—all of which were very much awake. "What gives?"

When the light from my flashlight reached Lionel's face, it picked up the tear tracks down his cheeks.

"Why are you crying?" I demanded. But I knew. That thump I heard. Shane was in his bed, some feet away, but his face looked too sweetly innocent for him to not be guilty of something.

But all Lionel would say was, "I am not crying."

I was sick of it. I really was. All I wanted to do was read my magazine and go to bed, so I could find Taylor Monroe. Was that so much to ask, after such a long day?

"Fine," I said, sitting down on the floor, my flashlight shining against the ceiling.