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to brush away dirt to read the inscription. When I did, it was even stranger than his wife’s.
    G ILMORE S AMUEL H ARVEY
B ORN D ECEMBER 2, 1836
D IED O CTOBER 31, 1879
S O SHALL THE RIGHTEOUS
ESCAPE THE GRAVE .
    Now not only was I creeped out, I had something to think about. Maybe this was crazy, but it almost felt like that one was trying to tell me something. But what?
    A cold gust made me shiver, and I noticed the bats were out again. If there was ever a moment for ghosts and vampires and werewolves to appear in a regular kid’s life, this was it.
    I started to run. I didn’t get very far.
    That night after dinner I called Yasmeen to fill her in. I swear, even over the phone line, I could hear her shake her head, exasperated. “That’s why I carry Band-Aids and antiseptic,” she said.
    I touched my forehead to see if it still hurt. It did. I think it was Dad’s scrubbing that inflicted most of the damage, but it hadn’t been such a hot idea to run into the tree in the first place.
    â€œAnybody would’ve been scared,” I said. “Anybody would’ve run.”
    â€œAnybody would not have run into a
tree
,” she said. “It takes the distinctive talents of my next-door neighbor Alex Parakeet to do that.”
    â€œCan we change the subject?” I said.
    â€œAbsolutely,” Yasmeen said. “The new subject is how you’re going to help me do Mrs. Lee a favor.”
    â€œThat wasn’t the new subject I was thinking of,” I said, “but what favor?”
    â€œWe’re supposed to return one of the baby monitors—the fancy one from Mrs. Jensen. Marjie Lee says it’s too powerful. She keeps picking up cell phone conversations, and it’s embarrassing.”
    â€œBut why are
you
doing this?” I asked her.
    â€œ
We
are doing this because my mom volunteered us,” Yasmeen said. “Come on, Alex. It’s only over to Biggest Buy-Buy. We can walk there after school.”
    There was no way carrying one baby monitor required two people. But there was also no way I was going to get out of this if Yasmeen had made up her mind. So I said, “Sure. Now can we talk about my subject?”
    â€œSure,” Yasmeen said.
    â€œI told you about the gravestones, what they said?”
    â€œRight,” said Yasmeen.
    â€œWell, didn’t it seem strange to you—especially Mr. Harvey’s?”
    â€œIt’s unusual,” she agreed, “but every Christian believes Jesus rose from the grave so that we will, too. Isn’t that all he was saying?”
    Something hit me. “Wait a second. Isn’t that all
who
was saying?”
    â€œWho else are we talking about?” Yasmeen said. “Gilmore Harvey.”
    â€œGilmore Harvey wrote what it said on Marianne’s headstone. He was there to do it after she died. But
when
did he write his own?” I asked. “He died all of a sudden. It’s not like he had time to be composing his own—what do you call it? An epo—?”
    â€œAn epitaph,” Yasmeen said slowly, like she was thinking as she spoke. “So unless he had it ready to go in advance, he didn’t write it. Someone else did.”
    â€œSomeone else,” I repeated, “but who?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, still like she was thinking. But then her voice changed. “Look,Alex, this is all ancient history, right? It’s not helping us find the missing cats.”
    â€œYou sent me to the cemetery!” I protested.
    â€œThat was because I thought you might find a clue to what’s going on in this century—the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. I think we better forget about the cemetery for now. Don’t you want to hear about the baby? And Mr. Lee was even there.”
    â€œAmazing.”
    â€œThat’s what my mom said. You know what’s kind of a weird coincidence? The baby’s room is all decorated