and she was trapped in a glass box anyway.
His breath fogged the glass, obscuring the girl’s face. Billy wiped the mist away, then looked at his hand in horror. Fingerprints—he’d just left fingerprints all over the glass! The police would be furious with him for sure.
Billy lowered his hand and looked back down at the girl’s face.
Her cheeks were wet, and as he watched, tears ran from her closed eyes, down her face, into her hair.
Billy backed up a step. She wasn’t dead after all, just trapped. Billy could think of one thing better than discovering a dead body, and that was rescuing somebody. The Glass Casket Killer liked to put women in glass boxes until they died, maybe that was it, but Billy could save her.
He looked around, then headed for a pile of broken-up cinderblocks. He picked up a heavy fragment of concrete in both hands and carried it back to the casket. He thought for a moment about tropical fish tanks, and about the Boy in the Bubble he’d seen in that video at school—maybe letting air in would kill this girl, maybe the casket was sealed to protect her. Billy dropped the concrete. He didn’t want to mess anything up. The fingerprints were bad enough. What sort of trouble could he get in for destroying evidence, or for killing the girl by accident?
Billy had to go home for dinner soon. Mom didn’t like it when he wasn’t home when she got off work, and she wouldn’t like him hanging around behind the burned-out store. Ever since Dad left last year she’d been like that, yelling at him half the time, hugging him close the other half. He took a last look at the crying girl and went reluctantly to his bicycle. Maybe Mom would know what to do.
Billy pedaled home, his bike wobbling in slow arcs back and forth across the cracked sidewalks and back streets, thinking about the glass casket, the way the beveled corners caught the afternoon light, the way the girl’s tears fell into her hair. His helmet hung by its chin strap from the handlebars, forgotten as usual. Billy made it home and dragged his bike through the gate into the scraggly front yard. He chained his bike to a post on the porch, and remembered to put his helmet on so his Mom would think he’d been wearing it all along. He went through the front door, calling, “Hey, Mom!”
His mom was there, sitting stiffly in the straight-backed armchair, and a strange man sat on the couch. The man nodded to Billy. He wore a dark suit and had eyes as blue as Dad’s poker chips. With his slicked-down black hair and his little mustache, he looked like a magician, someone who’d wear a tuxedo on stage and do card tricks, and for the grand finale he’d cut a lady wearing a sequined dress in half, or stick swords through her.
“Billy, this is Mr. Mancuso,” his mom said. Her voice was wavery, and she looked at him funny, her eyes not quite focusing. “He used to know your father.”
Billy looked at the man with new interest. “You knew my dad? Do you know where he is now?”
“I might be able to find him for you,” Mr. Mancuso said. His voice purred, smooth, like a radio announcer on the classical station Billy’s dad had liked. “I’m looking for someone, too, and I’m always willing to exchange help for help.” Billy’s mother didn’t look at Mr. Mancuso as he spoke. She just stared at the blank television screen. That television had never been turned off in the evening, not in Billy’s experience. When Mom was home, the television was on. Even when Mom had company, the most she’d do was turn the volume down low.
“Children see lots of things,” Mr. Mancuso said, leaning forward, his blue eyes wide, his smile friendly but a little smirky, too. “They go places adults don’t, see things adults wouldn’t notice. Your mother... hasn’t been much help.” Mr. Mancuso frowned a little, like Billy’s mom had disappointed him. “Neither has anyone else I’ve talked to today. But perhaps I’ve been talking to the wrong
His breath fogged the glass, obscuring the girl’s face. Billy wiped the mist away, then looked at his hand in horror. Fingerprints—he’d just left fingerprints all over the glass! The police would be furious with him for sure.
Billy lowered his hand and looked back down at the girl’s face.
Her cheeks were wet, and as he watched, tears ran from her closed eyes, down her face, into her hair.
Billy backed up a step. She wasn’t dead after all, just trapped. Billy could think of one thing better than discovering a dead body, and that was rescuing somebody. The Glass Casket Killer liked to put women in glass boxes until they died, maybe that was it, but Billy could save her.
He looked around, then headed for a pile of broken-up cinderblocks. He picked up a heavy fragment of concrete in both hands and carried it back to the casket. He thought for a moment about tropical fish tanks, and about the Boy in the Bubble he’d seen in that video at school—maybe letting air in would kill this girl, maybe the casket was sealed to protect her. Billy dropped the concrete. He didn’t want to mess anything up. The fingerprints were bad enough. What sort of trouble could he get in for destroying evidence, or for killing the girl by accident?
Billy had to go home for dinner soon. Mom didn’t like it when he wasn’t home when she got off work, and she wouldn’t like him hanging around behind the burned-out store. Ever since Dad left last year she’d been like that, yelling at him half the time, hugging him close the other half. He took a last look at the crying girl and went reluctantly to his bicycle. Maybe Mom would know what to do.
Billy pedaled home, his bike wobbling in slow arcs back and forth across the cracked sidewalks and back streets, thinking about the glass casket, the way the beveled corners caught the afternoon light, the way the girl’s tears fell into her hair. His helmet hung by its chin strap from the handlebars, forgotten as usual. Billy made it home and dragged his bike through the gate into the scraggly front yard. He chained his bike to a post on the porch, and remembered to put his helmet on so his Mom would think he’d been wearing it all along. He went through the front door, calling, “Hey, Mom!”
His mom was there, sitting stiffly in the straight-backed armchair, and a strange man sat on the couch. The man nodded to Billy. He wore a dark suit and had eyes as blue as Dad’s poker chips. With his slicked-down black hair and his little mustache, he looked like a magician, someone who’d wear a tuxedo on stage and do card tricks, and for the grand finale he’d cut a lady wearing a sequined dress in half, or stick swords through her.
“Billy, this is Mr. Mancuso,” his mom said. Her voice was wavery, and she looked at him funny, her eyes not quite focusing. “He used to know your father.”
Billy looked at the man with new interest. “You knew my dad? Do you know where he is now?”
“I might be able to find him for you,” Mr. Mancuso said. His voice purred, smooth, like a radio announcer on the classical station Billy’s dad had liked. “I’m looking for someone, too, and I’m always willing to exchange help for help.” Billy’s mother didn’t look at Mr. Mancuso as he spoke. She just stared at the blank television screen. That television had never been turned off in the evening, not in Billy’s experience. When Mom was home, the television was on. Even when Mom had company, the most she’d do was turn the volume down low.
“Children see lots of things,” Mr. Mancuso said, leaning forward, his blue eyes wide, his smile friendly but a little smirky, too. “They go places adults don’t, see things adults wouldn’t notice. Your mother... hasn’t been much help.” Mr. Mancuso frowned a little, like Billy’s mom had disappointed him. “Neither has anyone else I’ve talked to today. But perhaps I’ve been talking to the wrong
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