“Going out, Mom,” I called, then went out the door. I’d just gotten to my car when I heard, “Shels?” Her silhouette was in the doorway. “Where are you going?” “Just out.” I immediately regretted that I hadn’t been more specific. It sounded made up and feeble. “Out where?” “To Roman’s. I won’t stay late.” Mom was quiet. I couldn’t see her expression. She closed the door. Whit was waiting for me in the dark parking lot behind the studio, with two small flashlights. He gave me one. “You have the keys?” he asked. I nodded, and we walked toward the back door. “Doesn’t it feel like we’re in a movie?” I whispered. “All we’re doing is going into your dad’s studio.” “At night with flashlights?” I was just about to slide the key into the back-door lock when I noticed a flat piece of plastic stuck in the doorjamb. The kind of plastic that milk containers are made out of. Someone had put it there to keep the door from locking. I stiffened and whispered to Whit: “Think someone’s in there?”
