Free Code Name Cassandra by Meg Cabot

was the story about?” Dave wanted to know.
    Laughingly, I told them. Not about Rob, of course, but about the killer car, and the appropriating of some of Mr. King’s works.
    They listened in stunned silence. Then Karen said vehemently, “I don’t believe in frightening children with ghost stories.”
    I snorted. Karen, of course, didn’t know what she was talking about. What kid didn’t love a ghost story? Ghost stories weren’t the problem. But the fact that a three-year-old could be kidnapped from a mall and not be found until two years later?
    Now
that
was scary.
    Which was why, instead of joining my fellow Birch Trees for breakfast that morning—even though I was starving, of course, after my swim and my Fiddle Faddle dinner of the night before—I snuck back into the camp’s administrative offices, in the hopes of finding a phone I could use.
    I scored one without a lot of trouble. The secretary with the NASCAR-driving boyfriend wasn’t in yet. I slipped into her chair and, dialing nine first to get out, dialed the number to the National Organization for Missing Children.
    Rosemary didn’t pick up. Some other lady did.
    “1-800-WHERE-R-YOU,” she said. “How may I direct your call?”
    I had to whisper, of course, so I wouldn’t be overheard. I also assumed my best Spanish accent, just in case the line was being monitored. “Rosemary,
por favor
.”
    The lady went, “Excuse me?”
    I whispered, “
Rosemary
.”
    “Oh,” the lady said. “Um. One moment.”
    Jeez! I didn’t have a moment! I could be busted any
second
. All I needed was for Pamela to walk in and find that not only had I abandoned my charges, but I was also making personal use of camp property… .
    “This is Rosemary,” a voice said, cautiously, into my ear.
    “Hey,” I said, dropping the Spanish accent. There was no need to say who was calling. Rosemary knew my voice. “Taylor Monroe. Gainesville, Florida.” I rattled off the street address. Because that’s how it comes. The information, I mean. It’s like there’s a search engine inside of my brain: insert name and photo image of missing child, and out comes full address, often with zip code attached, of where child can be located.
    Seriously. It’s
bizarre
, especially considering I’ve never even heard of most of these places.
    “Thank you,” Rosemary said, careful not to say my name within hearing of her supervisor, who’d sicced the Feds on me once before. “They’re going to be so happy. You don’t know—”
    It was at this point that Pamela, looking troubled, came striding down the hall, heading straight toward the secretary’s desk.
    I whispered, “Sorry, Rosemary, gotta go,” and hung up the phone. Then I ducked beneath the desk.
    It didn’t do any good, though. I was busted. Way busted.
    Pamela went, “Jess?”
    I curled into a tight ball underneath the secretary’s desk. Maybe, if I didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, Pamela would think she had seen a mirage or something, and go away.
    “Jessica,” Pamela said, in the kind of voice you probably wouldn’t use if you were talking to a mirage. “Come out. I saw you.”
    Sheepishly, I crawled out from beneath the desk.
    “Look,” I said. “I can explain. It’s my grandma’s ninetieth birthday today, and if I didn’t call first thing, well, there’d be H to pay—”
    I thought I’d get brownie points for saying H instead of hell, but it didn’t work out that way. For one thing, Pamela had looked as if she’d already been in a bad mood before she saw me. Now she was even more upset.
    “Jess,” she said in a weird voice. “You know you aren’t supposed to be using camp property—”
    “—for personal calls,” I finished for her. “Yes, I know. And I’m really sorry. Like I said, it was an emergency.”
    Pamela looked way more upset than the situation warranted. I knew something else was up. But I figured it was some kind of orchestra camp emergency or something. You know, like