‘Look,’ Trent said, holding the drill out so they could get a good look. ‘This is what they call a needle-point drill bit. See how tiny it is? And since we’re only going to drill behind the pictures, I don’t think we have to worry.’ There were about a dozen framed prints along the third-floor hallway, half of them beyond the study door, on the way to the closet at the end where the suitcases were stored. Most of these were very old (and mostly uninteresting) views of Titusville, where the Bradburys lived. ‘He doesn’t even look at them, let alone behind them,’ Laurie agreed. Brian touched the tip of the drill with one finger, and then nodded. Lissa watched, then copied both the touch and the nod. If Laurie said something was okay, it probably was; if Trent said so, it almost certainly was; if they both said so, there could be no question. Laurie took down the picture, which hung closest to the small crack in the plaster and gave it to Brian. Trent drilled. They stood watching him in a tight little circle of three, like infielders encouraging their pitcher at a particularly tense moment of the game. The drill bit went easily into the wall, and the hole it made was every bit as tiny as promised.

The darker square of wallpaper, which had been revealed when Laurie took the print off its hook, was also encouraging. It suggested that no one had bothered taking the dark line engraving of the Titusville Public Library off its hook for a very long time.

After a dozen turns of the drill’s handle, Trent stopped and reversed, pulling the bit free.

‘Why’d you quit?’ Brian asked.