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That I couldn’t explain.

I ducked under the yellow tape and pushed the stroller up the curving driveway to the Bell house. Squeak, squeak, squeak. The garage’s side door was standing open, swinging lazily back and forth in a light breeze. There were no splinters above or beneath the lock plate, and none on the door itself. It could have been loided with a credit card, but it hadn’t been forced.

I studied the doorknobs, both outside and inside. There was a keyhole in the middle of the outside knob, which Officer Zane had used to lock the door. You didn’t need a key to lock the inside. There was a button in the middle of that knob and all you had to do was push it.

The solution is simple, I thought. It was the twins. It was Jacob and Joseph. They just turned the inside knob. The button would pop out and the door would open. Easy as winking. Then they pushed the stroller down to my place, Jake on one side and Joe on the other.

Sure. And if you believed that, you’d believe we won in Vietnam, the moon landing was faked, the horror-stricken parents at Sandy Hook were crisis actors, and 9/11 was an inside job.

And yet the garage door was open.

And the stroller had turned up at my house, a quarter of a mile away.

My phone rang. I jumped. It was Officer P. Zane. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s Department had come through after all.

“Hello, Mr. Trenton, what can I do you for?” He sounded more relaxed today, and much more Southern. Probably because it was his day off and he was in civilian mode.

“I’m at the Bell house,” I said, and told him why. I hardly need to add that I left out the part about my vision of the boys falling into the camouflaged snakepit.

There was a moment of silence when I finished. Then he said, “Go ahead and put that stroller back in the garage, why don’t you?” He sounded unsurprised and not very concerned. Of course he hadn’t had a vision of snakes crawling all over Joe Bell as he shrieked. “Somebody played a practical joke on you. Teenagers most likely, sneaking up Rattlesnake Road to see where the crazy lady died. She kind of had that reputation in Palm Village.”

“You really think that’s what it was?”

“What else could it be?”

Ghosts, I thought. Ghost children. But I wasn’t going to say it. I didn’t even like thinking it. “Maybe you’re right. They must have popped the lock with a credit card or driver’s license, though. There’s no sign of damage.”

“Sure. Nothing to popping a lock like that.”

“Easy as winking.”

He chuckled. “Got that right. Just put the stroller back and close the door. Deceased lady’s keys are at the substation. Andy Pelley will pick em up. You remember who I’m talking about?”

“Sure. Super Gramp.”

He laughed. “Right, but don’t call him that to his face. Anyway, he got his judge friend to sign that Exigent Circumstances widget so he can go in and do a search for next of kin and local contacts. Andy’s a sharp old bird. If anyone’s been in there, he’ll know. We at least have to find someone who’ll take responsibility for the lady’s remains.”

Remains, I thought, watching the door swing back and forth in the breeze. What a word. “I guess she can’t just stay in the morgue, can she?”

“We don’t even have one. She’s at the Perdomo Funeral Home on the Tamiami. Listen, since you’re there and the garage is open, would you mind going inside and see if the lady’s car got vandalized in any way? Punctured tires, broken windows, cracked windshield? Because we’d have to take that a little more serious.”

“Happy to. Sorry to interrupt you on your day off.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ve had my breakfast and now I’m just sitting out back and reading the paper. Call me if anything’s wrong with the car. If there is, I’ll inform Andy. And Mr. Trenton?”

“Why don’t you make it Vic?”

“Okay, Vic. If you feel like the kids who took that stroller down to Mr. Ackerman’s house might do it again—the sort of kids who pull shit like that ain’t what you’d call creative—you can roll it back and put it in your garage.”

“I think I’ll leave it here.”

“Fair enough. You have a good day, now.”

As I rolled the pram into the garage, rocking up the front end to get it over the jamb, I realized I hadn’t told Zane about the shorts and shirts, either.

The garage wasn’t air conditioned, and I began to sweat almost as soon as I was through the door. Other than needing a trip through the nearest car wash—the sides and windshield were crusted with salt—Allie’s Chevy Cruze looked okay. I found myself staring at the empty car seats in the back (of course they were empty) and made myself look away. There were a number of cardboard cartons stacked along the back wall. Neatly lettered in Magic Marker on each was THE Js.

My mother had a saying, Only snooping is lower than gossip, but my father liked to tease her with another one: Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.