Towering

. . .” She played with the Rummikub tiles. I dimly remembered that Nikki and her friends used to make necklaces out of them. Nikki . . .
    “It’s a little far,” she said.
    What around here wasn’t? “That’s okay. Where, exactly, is it?”
    “You pass the hardware store and get onto the Northway. Then, you get off in Gatskill.”
    Gatskill? That had been where Zach had worked, at the Red Fox Inn. “About how far away is that?”
    “At least half an hour I’d say. And you should drive slowly in this rain.” She glanced at her watch, a skinny gold thing I bet she had to wind each morning. “Maybe it’s too late to get started. They probably close at five.”
    It was nearly two now. It probably was too late. But on the other hand, I was sure the bar was just getting started at five.
    “No, I’ll go. I’d like to get something done today.” I started to put away the Rummikub tiles.
    “Such diligence.” She placed her hand on my wrist, stopping me. “I’ll put them away.”
    “I’ll get gas for your car too.” It was the least I could do, since I was the only one driving it.
    “Sweet boy.” She made me a little map, which I took with me. I took my computer too, even though I had no intention of using it. I felt bad lying to her in a way I hadn’t felt bad about lying to my own mom. Maybe it was because I was still suffering with what had happened to Tyler or maybe it was because I knew she’d been lied to before, with great consequence. Still, I did lie, I just felt bad about it.
    I went to the library first. It was surprisingly packed, by which I mean I saw eight or nine people, and I actually had to wait to talk to the librarian, an old lady who looked like she’d died a few years ago. Maybe everyone’s internet was out.
    “Red Fox Inn?” she said when I finally asked her. “It used to be on Route Eight, just a ways down from the grocery. I’m not sure it’s there anymore, but I don’t drink.”
    “Thank you.” I started to turn away.
    “Do you want a book while you’re here?”
    “Um, maybe later. I have to get there first. It’s sort of . . . ah, a scavenger hunt.”
    She sighed.
    “Don’t forget we close at five.”
    It had finally stopped raining. In fact, the air was cold. I found Route 8, which I had passed on the way to the library, found the grocery store, and, very eventually, found the Red Fox Inn.
    Or what was left of it, which was merely a skeleton of a building, burned out by fire. A sign still remained, its charred letters saying Red Fox Inn . I started to drive away, when I saw there was a second building, a little shack or house. It had looked equally abandoned at first, but then, I noticed some movement. When I turned, I saw a grimy window shade drop down. I got out of the car.
    Then, I stopped. Was I crazy? I mean, really, was I crazy? I was out here in a rural area, exactly the type of place where people disappeared and were never seen again. Add the abandoned, burned-out building and some kind of squatter living in it. Possibly, it could be some harmless Boo Radley type—or it could be Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th parts one through twenty. In fact, I’d passed a boarded-up summer camp on the way there. Sure, it might just have been closed for the winter, but what if it wasn’t?
    I got back in the car.
    But then, I remembered Rachel, saying she thought there was something she was destined to do, trapped in a tower over her poor, murdered mother. Who had put her there? And why? Would she ever get away? There was something weird going on in this town, and finding the guy who had given Danielle those creepy leaves seemed like the key.
    I thought too, of Mrs. Greenwood, all alone. I needed to find out what had happened to Danielle.
    Then, someone tapped my window.
    I jumped. It was just like Zombieland ! And me without my shotgun. My feet searched for the gas pedal, not finding it.
    “Can I help you, son?”
    The face at the window was an old guy, but he in no way looked dead. In fact, he was sort of a harmless old guy, older than anyone I’d ever seen, blue eyes surrounded by a spiderweb of wrinkles, looking out from under a Yankees cap.
    Running him over would probably be considered an overreaction. I rolled the window down, which took a minute because Mrs. Greenwood’s car had these crazy window cranks you had to turn. Despite this, the old guy left his hands on the glass the whole time. On the up side, I could see his hands, and he