"Armored vehicle? Car crash? Security guards? Maybe she wants us to be wary of security guards."

I was grasping at straws to make sense of what we'd just witnessed. It was plainly obvious that Jennie-or something pretending to be Jennie-had wanted us to extract some kind of meaning from the accident we'd just witnessed involving the armored truck. It was mid-morning and we were wandering. It seemed we'd done an excellent job of stranding ourselves in a part of Arkansas without any public transportation. The train, the most dangerous way by which we might reach another town to purchase a phone charger or identify some other method of travel to Los Angeles, was looking like our only option.

Trey took a long drag off one of his stolen cigarettes. "Maybe I'm being a simpleton, here, but it seems like she just wanted us to notice all that money. I mean, it was a big explosion of money. Money in the air, money on the ground."

Money seemed a little too obvious of a clue. If Trey was correct, then there were at least ten different ways in which money was of serious importance to us. The first was the most urgent; we were never going to get ourselves to Southern California by Saturday without a serious influx of cash. Then, even if we managed to somehow reach Los Angeles and failed to convince Mischa to conspire with us, we'd need money (and lots of it) to make anything out of what remained of our lives. And of course, we couldn't rule out the possibility that lifting the curse had something to do with money. Either the money that Violet incomprehensibly wanted Trey to inherit, or the money that his mother might have considered rightfully his.

The map had indicated that the high school in this small town was less than three miles away from where we'd started out that morning, when we woke up stiff-necked and still tired in the lobby of the bank. Two and a half miles hadn't seemed like such a long distance when we'd made the decision to head in that direction, but my feet already ached. I followed in Trey's footsteps along the same rural highway that had delivered us to this town as the clouds parted and sun boosted the temperature to the warmest it had been in weeks. It had already crossed my mind that this town was old-fashioned enough to employ a truant officer for the purpose of rounding up teenagers roaming around without supervision on a weekday.

I tested out Trey's theory. "Okay, so, money. Would you say that was a hint that we should pursue money, or avoid it? Because I personally have no idea."

Trey shrugged and without turning, he muttered over his shoulder, "How should I know? You're the one who talks to ghosts. Not me."

Three red brick buildings came into view, and we both slowed to a stop. If that was Gurdon's high school, then the town was even smaller than Weeping Willow. "Do you think that's it?" I asked.

"That looks like a track and a football field."

Closer to the buildings, a sign appeared along the side of the road with the high school's name and mascot on it. "Am I weird for being freaked out that their mascot is a devil?" Trey asked.

The high school seemed oddly serene for a weekday morning. Despite its small size, Weeping Willow High always seemed to be stirring with activity from the street. There were always students with hateful frowns on their faces running laps outside, students lingering outside the Driver's Ed garage, and students wistfully staring out windows. But this high school practically seemed abandoned. It was almost eerie. Throughout our entire walk, I'd been imagining that the high school would be enormous and bustling with activity so that our presence would have gone unnoticed. I'd even dared to imagine that we'd be able to slip into the school's locker rooms for quick hot showers. Now that we'd arrived, that wish seemed laughable.

"What do you think?" I asked. "Should we check it out?"

Trey seemed humored that I was the one suggesting that we venture closer to a place that might very well turn out to be dangerous. "Maybe catch a Calculus class while we're in town?" he joked.

I swatted him on the shoulder. "Come on. If we can find a way to get inside unnoticed, we might be able to use a computer and figure out when the next train is going to pass through here."

"Good point."

We trudged the long way toward the school, sticking closely to the side street that led to its parking lot rather than marching across the open field that separated it from the street. If any cars were to drive past, we would have dove into the trees surrounding the school's property, as had been our plan while walking into town the night before. But we reached the front doors of the school without a single car passing along the rural stretch of highway. Now it was evident that school was in session. We could hear the muffled voices of teachers giving lessons through the building's open windows. Carried on the breeze was the familiar smell of a high school lunchroom deep fryer.

Without a word, we ducked to avoid being seen through windows by kids sitting in classrooms and crept around the school's perimeter. In a chemistry lab, the class was performing an experiment to determine the molar mass of non-ionic solutions by using the freezing point depression. Hearing the teacher's instructions made my heart ache with homesickness; I'd done that very same experiment at the beginning of the school year with Mischa as my lab partner. Trey looked over his shoulder at me and snickered. In a way we were lucky to be exempt from a day's worth of a normal high school curriculum. At the same time, I would have traded our freedom as outlaws for boring normalcy in a second if it were an option.

We were half-way around the building and I was just starting to wonder exactly what I'd hoped to find by staking out the school when the bell rang. It shrill sound caught us both by surprise, and we froze where we were, directly beneath an open window. Neither of us dared to steel a peek through the window for fear of being seen. Noises began escaping the window over our heads, suggesting that anyone who got close to the window and looked downward through it would immediately see us. About twenty seconds after the bell marking the start of the period in between classes, a stream of cigarette smoke wafted through the window. My instant suspicion was that we'd been temporarily trapped right outside a teachers' lounge.

Trey and I held perfectly still under the window while we eavesdropped on these small town Arkansas teachers discussing which kids had detention later that afternoon and the start of college football season. After what felt like half an hour but was probably closer to three minutes, the conversation in the room stopped and a second bell rang, announcing the start of the next class. "Trey!" I whispered. He was already on the move, scurrying forward. "Maybe we can climb in through this window."

Unable to hear me, he doubled back toward me. I stood upright without fear of being spotted by anyone remaining in what I assumed to be an empty lounge. Peering through the window, I found that I was right. On the other side of the window was a small room with cinderblock walls painted beige. A microwave was set on a countertop next to a sink and a dish drainer loaded with coffee mugs. A table surrounded by chairs was positioned at the center of the room, and a vending machine hummed peacefully in one corner. But what made my heart swell was the presence of a desktop computer, a printer, and a big, old-fashioned Xerox machine.

Trey surveyed the room and I could tell from his expression that he was thinking the same thing I was: we needed to at least try to get into that room to use the computer. The window was the type of model that opened outward instead of lifting upward. Trey reached for it and by applying even just the slightest pressure he was able to pull it open as far as its hinges would allow. The pane stuck out from the building at a 90-degree angle, but once it was open it was plainly obvious that we wouldn't be able to hoist ourselves through it without breaking it.

"Crap, this isn't going to work," I muttered. "We have to find another way into the building and into this room before the class period ends."

"Not through the front doors. That would be suicide," Trey said. He was right. Even in a small town, it was safe to assume that the principal's office would be located near the front doors of the high school. If any part of the entire building had video surveillance, it would be the front entrance.

I summoned a mental blueprint of Weeping Willow High School's layout, trying to predict where there might be other logical access points in this unfamiliar building. At our high school in Wisconsin, a student could have probably slipped into the building through the Driver's Ed garage, through the delivery entrance of the cafeteria, through the gymnasium doors which led to the football field, or through the doors on the South side near the student parking lot. "There has to be a door near the gym," I surmised. I motioned for Trey to follow me.

He rolled his eyes. "I cannot believe we're trying to break into school."

This was technically the second time in recent history that I'd broken into a high school. I'd persuaded Cheryl to use the copy of keys with which she'd been entrusted to open up the building for early morning band practice to let me into Weeping Willow High. That had been over Christmas break, when I wanted to steal a glimpse at Violet Simmons' medical records.

We reached the edge of the brick building and turned a corner, both fully aware that now we were clinging to the side of the building facing the football field. If a gym class in session were to suddenly exit the building on its way to run laps, we would be noticed in a matter of seconds. But we both saw a double set of brown doors in unison, and one of them-by some miracle-had been left propped open. The sliver of hallway visible through the open doorway seemed to beckon us. And of course, every time in the last six months we had encountered any scenario that appeared too good to be true, it always was.

This seemed like it could be an awfully convenient trap.

Trey said quietly with determination in his eyes, "Let's do this."

Strangely, the hallway of the high school smelled exactly like the interiors of Weeping Willow High School and my high school in Tampa. Perhaps the stale smell of industrial cleaning supplies with a hint of smelly sweat socks and an undercurrent of mildew was a hallmark of every American high school. We entered soundlessly, padding down the hall in our sneakers with shallow breath. We passed a trophy case boasting several years of football victories. Once we had been swallowed by the building, it was hard to orient ourselves in relation to the teachers' lounge. The hallway ahead appeared to lead to an empty cafeteria, and an offshoot on our left wrapped around the side of the building. Trey chose that route, creeping along the locker-lined wall and dipping below a small window on a classroom door by bending his knees.

The teachers' lounge was the third door on the left, marked by a little sign on the wall of the hallway. After taking one quick look around to ensure that we weren't being observed by a pesky hall monitor or janitor, I reached for the door knob. Even though we didn't know any of the teachers or students at this school, I was still intimidated to step into the teachers' lounge, the most taboo corner of all high school premises. Unfortunately, the doorknob only followed the twist of my wrist about fifteen degrees before it stopped. It was locked.

I shook my head at Trey. There was no way it was going to budge.

Without hesitation he reached into Laura's bag, which I carried over one shoulder, withdrew her wallet, and pulled out her credit card. In one deft swipe, he inserted it into the crack between the door and the door frame and jerked it downward. The door popped inward and we slipped inside.

"Good job," I whispered once we had carefully closed the door behind us and re-locked it.

"You learn a lot of useful stuff in reform school," he said with a shrug.

By our best guess, we probably had at least forty minutes to use the resources of the teachers' lounge before the bell would ring. We wasted no time. In a huge stroke of luck, someone had left behind their phone charger in the lounge, conveniently plugged into a power strip near the computer. I immediately plugged Laura's phone into it and was pleased to see the green bar appear on its screen to indicate that it was charging. After taking a seat at the computer, I jiggled the mouse to stir the screen awake only to be greeted by a Windows log-in prompt.

"Username and password?" I balked.

The teachers hadn't done such a great job of ensuring network security; Trey pointed to a username and password I'd overlooked that had been printed on a label fixed to the monitor. The computer screen filled with desktop icons of software programs, and I immediately pulled up an internet browser to research train schedules. Behind me, Trey cased the joint. I heard him open the miniature fridge next to the window.

My initial Google search about freight train time tables was a disaster. As it turned out, the schedules of freight trains were mostly unscheduled. There weren't any websites that detailed their routes or arrival times. However, one message board indicated that their movement could be observed on various radio frequencies across the country. The person who had posted that crucial bit of information indicated that rail operations in the United States were typically broadcast in the 160-161 MegaHertz bands. Since I wasn't much of a radio expert, this information baffled me. Basically, if a radio station didn't come in loud and clear on my iPod, I had no idea how to find it.

Inspired, I excavated my iPod from the bottom of my purse. Its dial was still set to 98.3, the frequency at which Candace had reached me. "How much do you know about radio frequencies?" I asked Trey. He was twisting off the cap of a diet Snapple that he'd found in the fridge.

"Um, pretty much nothing," he admitted.

"Look," I said, summoning him over to the computer. "If we want to know when any kind of a train other than an Amtrak passenger train is next going to make its way through town, we have to figure out these ninety-six different frequencies to listen in on train conductors talking on the radio."

Trey dragged a chair from the table over to the computer desk where I sat. He studied the chart of frequencies on the computer screen and took a long swig of iced tea. "Why the hell does everything always have to be so hard?" he asked. "Maybe we should print that table out just in case we need it in the future."

"Yes," I agreed, and sent the website page to the printer. While the printer warmed up, I slid my earbuds into my ears and turned my iPod on, not sure if I could expect to hear the voice of Candace Cotton or some static-y indie rock hits. Since we were so far from Wisconsin, the indie rock station that I had loved as a kid was definitely not going to come through over the airwaves. I heard nothing but a man with a Southern accent talking in glitches under a steady stream of static. "Candace," I said aloud. "If you can hear me, I need your help."

Trey took another sip of his Snapple and looked at me with pained eyes. "I don't have a very good feeling about our chances of getting out of this one-horse town if our fate depends on the radio broadcast of a ghost."

I reached for his hand and squeezed his knuckles. "It's worth a shot."

The printer spat out the list of radio frequencies, and Trey tilted the keyboard toward himself so that he could use the computer. He pulled up the Gmail login screen, and typed in his information. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked. "The FBI and God only knows who else is probably monitoring your access to personal email accounts."

Trey smiled at me with confidence. "I know. But we're in Arkansas at a public school. And with any luck, we won't be here long."

Just then, I heard some suspicious crackling in my earbuds. "Candace?" I blurted out with hope. "Is that you?"

The crackling subsided and my heart sank. Maybe communication with Candace from the "other side" really had just been a one-time thing. I'd promised her that I'd relay a message to her mom and I didn't, so now maybe she wasn't going to waste any more energy on me. When I turned back toward the computer screen, I gasped. Trey was Gchatting with someone.

"What are you doing?" I asked, horrified.

"It's my brother," Trey said after typing a reply. "He's home from school. It's spring break this week in Weeping Willow." The message he had just typed was Is Mom home?

Eddie, Trey's brother, replied, Yeah.

"Trey, this is a really bad idea," I said, and was about to insist that he end the conversation immediately when I heard a female voice in my earbuds.

Trey typed in response, Go get her.

"McKenna? God, where the heck are you?"

Instinctively, I covered my ears with my hands as if the earbuds were in danger of falling out. "Candace? Can you hear me? I need your help with something kind of weird."

"What is it? Why aren't you in Wisconsin? It took me forever to find you just now."

"There's no time to explain, but I need to listen to something on the radio. I was hoping you might be able to help me tune into a frequency."

After a frustrating conversation in which I tried to explain the chart of ninety-six possible channels and frequencies to Candace, I snapped a photo of the print-out we'd made with the camera in my iPod. I was hopeful that somehow she'd be able to see it through the magic of the device she'd already somehow figured out how to manipulate. "Oh," she said after a moment. "I think... I'm getting the sense that it's not just one of these that we have to listen to, but all of them."

Next to me, Trey was typing away on the keyboard, which was greatly distracting. I wanted to read whatever he was telling his brother, but I knew getting Candace on the radio again was going to be a difficult task if I lost her. To better focus on Candace's directions, I rose from my chair and wandered over to the window, which was still wide open. "What do you mean?"

"Just that... these frequencies are delicate. They change based on the temperature of the air, the sunspot cycle, all kinds of things. It seems like listening into one of these and getting a perfect transmission is kind of impossible," Candace said.

"How do you know all of this about radio waves?" I asked in wonderment, questioning if everyone just became a scientific genius after death. If so, that fact about the afterlife would be of definite interest to my dad, who subscribed to Scientific American and often read thick books about singularities and dark matter.

"Ha!" Candace snorted. "I totally don't know anything. It's just easier from here to understand how things work for you. It's like being backstage and seeing all the levers and ropes move the curtains. I can't explain it. Someday you'll see for yourself."

Her comment sent a chill down my spine. Someday, yes, I too would be dead. Everyone would be, eventually. But it wasn't a very nice sentiment to hear on a bright and sunny weekday morning while trespassing in a strange high school.

"Okay, so what exactly are we trying to listen for, here?" she asked, returning my focus to the task at hand.

"Um, radio frequencies from train conductors passing through or bound for Arkansas," I said. "Any train on its way to Texarkana."

Disturbing silence followed my request for a few minutes until Candace's voice returned in a burst. "Arkansas. Okay... Arkansas is 160.980... that's channel fifty-nine. No! It's channel fifty-eight."

"You lost me, Candace. I'm pretty sure my radio only goes as low as eighty-seven point five," I said, wishing that I'd paid more attention in science class throughout elementary school when we'd talked about radio waves.

"I know, I know," Candace apologized. "Just keep listening. I'm going to try to drag that frequency into our conversation so that you can hear it without adjusting your dial."

Behind me, on the computer, I heard a voice that made my heart skip a beat. "Trey! Where are you?"

On the screen, via video chat, was Mrs. Emory.