Dressed all in black, Milo pulled his turtleneck over the lower half of his face, then tiptoed across the hallway and down the stairs. At last, he reached the door to the master bathroom, which connected to his father’s bedroom through a large walk-in closet.
He paused, his sweaty hand resting on the doorknob. What would happen if he got caught? I’ll probably get sent to boarding school. What would happen if he turned back? I’ll never learn the truth about Thingus. Which option was worse?
Resigned, he opened the bathroom door. The dim glow of his phone screen illuminated the way past a trio of glass sinks, a Japanese toilet that squirted water, a stone-tiled rainfall shower, and a large egg-shaped bathtub. Finally, Milo reached the second door.
He opened it without a squeak, revealing a walk-in closet the size of Lucy’s bedroom. His father’s crisply pressed suits, ties and dress shirts hung on the left. On the right were his stepmother’s designer dresses, handbags and rows upon rows of shoes. Milo crept along until he reached the bedroom door, his father’s saw-like snores rumbling faintly on the other side. How thoughtful of nature to provide a sound effect to let you know when someone is not conscious.
Cautiously, Milo stuck his head into the room, his eyes landing on the king-sized bed on the other side. Neither his father nor his stepmother stirred. So far so good. Now where’s that briefcase?
The cavernous swan-white bedroom was impeccably tidy. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the forest. Instead of curtains, the glass dimmed itself automatically at night. Milo could barely make out the shape of the moon, half full and high in the night sky.
He silently made his way across the sheepskin rug. Mr Fisher lay on his back, his mouth open, his eyes darting around under closed lids. He’s probably dreaming about work. Kaitlyn lay on the other side, face down, her platinum hair tousled over a silk pillowcase.
Milo dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. Oho, there it is! The briefcase was exactly where he thought it would be. Milo Fisher, do you know your father or what? He slid it out and set it at his side. At any moment he was going to have to move, and fast. Now came the hard, nay, the impossible part. Getting the code from his dad’s watch without waking him up.
Fearing he’d lose his nerve, Milo gently lifted the grey duvet. His father’s chest rose and fell steadily, his arms crossed over his midsection. The two watches were stacked one against the other on his left wrist. Milo strained to see the code, but it was too dark. There must be a light on that thing. Holding his breath, he reached out to press the button on the watch.
His fingers were mere millimetres away when Mr Fisher’s snore caught in his throat and turned into a cough. He stirred. Dismayed, Milo pancaked to the floor and slid under the bed. He waited, his heart pounding in his ears and rug burns stinging his elbows. Finally, his father rolled over, muttering something about “bonds”. His arm fell over the side of the bed.
Mr Fisher’s wrist dangled just above Milo’s head. As soon as the snores returned at regular intervals, Milo counted to three, then, careful not to touch his father’s skin, pressed a button on the side of the not-watch. The face lit up in ghostly green, displaying a string of seven numbers. The code changes every thirty seconds, Milo remembered. How long does this one have left? Just then, the numbers switched.
Milo rolled out from under the bed, arching away from his father’s hand, repeating the numbers in his head. 6-3-8-9-0-4-7, 6-3-8-9-0-4-7… He snatched up the briefcase and raced quietly over to the walk-in closet, silently shutting the door behind him. How much time had elapsed already? Ten seconds? Twenty? He knelt by a shoe rack and pulled out his phone, fumbling with it until the flashlight turned on.
He punched the numbers into the interface. 6-3-8-9-0…
Oh no. What are the last two? Milo was pretty sure the next number was 4, which he pressed, but was the one after a 2 or a 7? I should have written it down! I’m not cut out for a life of crime. His time was nearly up, and may have run out already. Flipping a coin in his head, he punched the number 7 on to the keypad. With a mechanical BEEP the briefcase unlocked. Huzzah!
Had anyone heard? He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. Time to see what was inside.
The briefcase’s contents were mostly documents. Milo rifled through a stack of manila folders, reading the typewritten headline on each tab: “Hypothetical Taxonomy of Preternatural Organisms”, “SP Biological Subversives”, “Deviant Biochemical Susceptibilities”. Holy cow. Milo wasn’t sure what all of those words meant, but he knew that Lucy’s glasses would melt off her face if she ever saw them.
Tempted as he was to read it all, Milo had struck a bargain with himself: he would look for the key to the symbols, which was precisely what Lucy had asked for, but he wouldn’t invade his father’s privacy any further, NO MATTER WHAT HE SAW. Frankly, he wished he hadn’t seen this much.
He flipped through until he found one titled: “Compendium of Preternatural Linguistic Symbology”. Symbology. Symbols! This was it. He pulled out the folder. Inside were dozens of handwritten pages, all filled with bizarre-looking letters, phrases and their English translations. Bingo Thingo.
Silently, Milo snapped picture after picture with his phone, mentally patting himself on the back after each one. He was just photographing the last page when he heard the sound of a knee bumping into a side table. “Oof. Owie.”
Kaitlyn was awake. Oh no.
