The Strangers by Jacqueline West

flicked once more to the darkness at the other end of the hallway. “Walter will make a perfectly adequate bodyguard, I’m sure. And now, once again, we shall bid you all good night.”
    With a final seam-straining bow, he guided Delora out the front door.
    Walter ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. To Olive, he looked more than ever like a long-legged water bird—but now the bird was watching the water for predators. Or prey. “Mmm . . . I’ll be on the porch,” he said, in his deep voice. “If you need me.” Then he stepped through the door and closed it soundly behind him.
    Mrs. Dewey gave Olive a final, sweet-scented hug before getting up to put on her coat. “If you change your mind, just let us know.”
    Rutherford leaned over the banister. “From what I could hear of their thoughts, both Doctor Widdecombe and Delora were quite certain that you ought to leave the house,” he said into Olive’s ear. “They may be right about something dangerous approaching.”
    “I’ll be careful,” Olive murmured back. “But I’m not leaving.”
    Rutherford watched Olive for a moment, his eyes wide and solemn behind their smudged lenses. Then he gave a little nod and backed away.
    From her spot on the bottom step, Olive listened to Rutherford and Mrs. Dewey telling Walter good night, and to their footsteps thumping across the porch and down the steps before dwindling away into the whispering darkness.
    Finally, the house was still.
    Several seconds passed before Olive heard the rustle of fabric. Morton scooted down the stairs to Olive’s step. He pulled back his ghostly hood. Without saying a word, he wrapped one skinny arm around her back, and then, so softly she wasn’t sure she felt it at all, he began to pat her on one shoulder. And that was how they sat, not speaking, until Olive was ready to stand up again.

    Everyone stayed in Olive’s room that night. The reading lamp formed a glowing barricade around the bed where Olive lay, still dressed in her jabberwocky sweat suit. Hershel, her worn brown bear, sagged comfortingly against her chest. The three cats positioned themselves around her, Leopold at her feet, Horatio at her side, and Harvey near her head. Morton sprawled on the floor, just beyond the border of the light. Annabelle’s filigreed locket, which had once held her grandfather’s portrait, glimmered on Olive’s vanity like a poisonous reminder. Olive could almost see Aldous’s portrait slithering out of it, swelling to fill the house with darkness. With a deep breath, she pulled her eyes away.
    Olive set her father’s glasses very carefully on the bedside table, so she would know just where they were when he came back. And he
would
come back, she told herself. Their lenses looked cold and empty in the yellow light.
    “Nothing else appears to have been taken,” said Horatio, his sharp eyes fixed on Olive’s face. “The grimoire is still safely hidden. The paintings and other furnishings are all where they belong.”
    “The tunnel is untouched,” said Leopold.
    “The attic is undisturbed as well,” added Harvey, wriggling out of his robe and unfastening the pincushion that had formed the Hunchcat’s hump.
    Olive nodded. She knew she should feel relieved by this news, but she didn’t. There wasn’t room left inside her to feel anything at all.
    “Tomorrow we will continue our search. Against us, with all of our allies on Linden Street, Annabelle will not stand a chance.” Horatio’s tail flicked over Olive’s arm, almost like a soothing hand. “We will find your parents, Olive.”
    Olive looked down at Morton. He had curled up in a small white ball in the shadows, with his face tilted up toward hers. He didn’t speak, but Olive knew what he must be thinking. The McMartins had taken
his
parents too, and they still hadn’t been found.
    They might never be found.
    Quiet settled throughout the room like raindrops filling an empty cup. Outside, beyond the window, the twigs of