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the unopened envelopes in with the other documents and looked for a hiding place. Geraldine had said trust no one, and Fry was a good enough place to start. He finally settled on a spot in the back of the closet, under a loose corner of carpet. He stuck an old suitcase on top, closed the closet door, and locked it. He stuffed the key and wallet in his pockets and hurried down to breakfast, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
    A long solid-oak dining table was set out with a selection of juices as well as a steaming platter of eggs, bacon, cooked mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns, and a couple of things Gerald didn’t recognize.
    “What’s this?” Gerald asked Fry, picking up a lid from a silver tray and poking a fork at the shriveled contents.
    “Kidneys and black pudding,” Fry replied from his position by the sideboard.
    “Kidneys!” Gerald gagged, dropping the lid with a clatter, splashing water onto the polished table. “For breakfast? No thanks. And what’s a black pudding?”
    Fry flinched at the sight of water on the table. He rushed across to wipe up the drops. Then he replaced the lid squarely on the tray, taking care to make sure the table setting remained immaculate.
    “The main ingredient of black pudding,” Fry said, his face just inches from Gerald’s, “is blood. Lots and lots of blood.”
    Gerald looked into the blank mask that was Fry’s face and swallowed.
    “Uh, I think I’ll have some toast,” he said.
    Fry marched back to the kitchen, muttering to himself. Gerald noticed some newspapers on the sideboard and wandered over to leaf through them. Every one led with the amazing story of the instant boy billionaire. There were photographs of Gerald rushing into the church with his parents for the funeral and shots of him climbing into the back of the Rolls for the journey home. Gerald had forgotten about the media pack. He went to a window that looked down on the street, and sure enough, at least thirty photographers and reporters were still parked on the pavement. A couple of the photographers had lenses trained on the front windows, and the moment Gerald’s face appeared a shout went up from below. Egg-and-bacon rolls and cups of coffee hit the footpath as breakfasts were tossed aside and cameras were hoisted toward Gerald. He waved a couple of times, which had as much calming effect as prodding a stick into the middle of an ants’ nest. Then he poked out his tongue and closed the curtains.
    Gerald sat at the table and thought. If he was to get out of the house, the front door was not going to provide an easy exit. And after the Rolls snuck in via the rear lane the previous day, it was likely that the media would be covering the back door as well. Then there was the small issue of getting past Mr. Fry.
    Just then, the butler appeared with a plate of warm toast, which he placed in front of Gerald, then fussed around, deftly wiping some crumbs from the table into his palm. As Gerald watched Mr. Fry rearranging the newspapers into a tidy pile on the sideboard, an idea popped into his head. He took the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out his shiny new credit card. Between mouthfuls of toast and honey, he spun it between his fingers.
    About an hour later Gerald positioned himself in a quiet corner of the ground-floor drawing room and waited. From this spot, he could keep an eye on the front door, as well as see through to the kitchen and the only door that led to the back drive. He flicked through the pages of one of the morning papers. In the kitchen Mr. Fry cleaned up after breakfast, a crisp white apron over his dark suit. Then from outside, there was a sudden clamor of voices. Gerald went to the window and looked between the curtains. There were three delivery vans at the front door and the drivers were busy handing out boxes of pizza to the photographers and reporters, together with trays of coffee.
    “From the young man inside,” one of the drivers announced. “He says he’s