The new kid next door had been interesting, but nothing special. Joe had been ten; he'd spotted her curled up in the lower branch of the sugar maple in the backyard next door. Movers had been out front of that house, hauling boxes in and using lots of fascinating new words, and Joe had been curious about the new neighbors, excited over something new finally happening on their street. No one had been in that house for months, not since Crazy Jones had really gone off his rocker and started firing bird shot at the Hardys' garbage cans. That had ended in a late-night police call and Chief Collig himself coming out to take the old man away…and a week later, there'd been serious-faced adults packing up Crazy Jones's possessions and a 'For Sale' sign out front of his house.

Joe had scrambled over the chain-link fence, Frank right behind him, and both went to stare up into the tree. The new girl was little, with short-cropped blonde hair; she was curled up around her knees and, despite the warm day, wearing a long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans that were slightly too big for her. She hadn't said anything, only stared at them.

"Hey," Frank had said, "you're a girl!"

Joe had looked at his brother in exasperation. "Of course she's a girl."

"She's in a tree," Frank said, perfectly serious. "Maybe she's really a squirrel."

Still silent, the new girl had stood, perfectly balanced on the branch, hooked an arm around the next branch up and swung herself onto it, re-curled herself into the crook of the new branch, now not looking at them.

Joe and Frank had exchanged grins — it had looked like a challenge, to Joe — and Joe grabbed the low branch, about to climb after her. A girl who could climb trees like that?

"Hi there," said a new voice, from the house, and the brothers had turned — an older woman, brown-skinned, black hair streaked with gray, wiry, in embroidered blue jeans and a red tank-top. She didn't look like anyone Joe had ever seen before, but he'd liked her weathered, dried-apple face immediately. Something about her eyes, warm and friendly. "You're the boys from next door. Frank and Joe."

There'd been a startled silence. "How'd you know that?" Joe had blurted out.

She'd grinned. "Magic."

"Nuh-uh." Even at eleven, Frank had insisted on everything making sense. "Dad told you, I bet."

The woman had laughed, eased to sit on the back porch steps. She had a great laugh, deep from the belly, open and free. "Oh, this is going to be fun, I can see that already."

"You look weird," Joe had said.

Frank elbowed him hard. "Joe! Sorry, ma'am," that, politely, to the woman, "he didn't mean it like that."

"She's an Indian," said the new girl, from above them.

Joe had stared hard at the woman. She didn't look at all like Tonto or even Tiger Lily. No headdress, no war paint, and she sounded…well…normal. "But you're not wearing any feathers."

"You're not acting like an Indian," Frank had said.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "What, you want me to scalp you?"

Both boys had shaken their heads fast.

"Wise heads on such young shoulders." The woman's gravelly voice was calm, casual. "I'm Maria Mountainhawk. You can call me Mar, for short. And yes, I'm really an Indian. Navajo. Diné, if you want the real word for it. The little squirrel up there's my daughter, Kris."

Joe looked back up towards the new girl; she'd been watching, but looked away quickly. "But she doesn't look like an Indian."

"She's adopted," Mar said calmly.

"She can't be," Frank said. "Indians don't adopt. They kidnap kids and turn them into Indians —" Then he'd shut up.

Mar only laughed again. "Well. Yes. That's about what I did."

That bit of news had gotten both brothers staring again. "Are you going to kidnap us, too?" Joe had said, wide-eyed, hopeful.

"Please do," said a dry voice; their dad stood at the corner of the house. "Maybe then I can keep some food in the fridge, for a change. Hi there." That, to Mar. "I see my boys are pestering you already. I'm Fenton Hardy."

Sudden movement up in the tree; Joe glanced up. Kris had scrambled to the next highest branch.

"Mar Mountainhawk," Mar said, smiling. "They're no bother. Boys are supposed to pester." Another grin at Frank and Joe. "Especially if they're going to be detectives when they grow up."

Dad had laughed. "Yeah, that's their current plan. My sister sent me over here to see if you wanted to come over for coffee and some lunch."

Joe had kept staring, wide-eyed. Dad hadn't known Mar, then. But somehow, Mar had still known his and Frank's names and that they were going to be detectives, like their dad.

"She really kidnapped you?" Frank had said, to Kris up in the tree. But Kris had been staring towards their dad, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Boys," Mar had gently shooed them away from the tree, "leave her alone right now." She looked up. "Do you want to come down for lunch?"

Joe had looked back. Kris had shaken her head, clinging to the tree. He couldn't understand why she looked so scared. It was just Dad.

"Okay," Mar said. "There's peanut butter in the fridge, when you're ready."

Dad had been watching the girl in the tree, then that look had moved to Mar, and even though Joe had only been ten, he knew that look. Something was seriously wrong, and Dad had figured that out, Dad was going to get involved…another mystery, another case!

However, back in the Hardys' kitchen, Aunt Gertrude had shooed Frank and Joe out onto the back porch with their sandwiches and sodas, while the adults had settled around the kitchen table for a low-voiced talk. That had been too much to take; there was some mystery about the new girl, Joe was certain. Kidnapped by Indians…! No wonder she'd been so scared.

"Joe," rolling his eyes, Frank had broken in on Joe's excited what-if's, "if she'd really kidnapped her, she wouldn't have told us like that."

"She might have," Joe countered; Mar had seemed nice, but everyone knew what Indians were really like. "Maybe she let it slip by accident." He went on with the one thing he knew would get his brother to help him. "She was scared, Frank. She was really scared."

There'd been only one way to find out. Eavesdropping on the adults was out. Fenton knew his sons too well and had taken the chair that let him keep an eye on the front door from the kitchen. No way to sneak up on the adults, then.

The brothers had slipped off the back porch — going over the fence again was also out, too obvious and way too visible from the back patio doors. They'd gone around the side of their house, then, since the front of the house next door had been blocked by the burly moving men who eyed the brothers suspiciously, Frank and Joe had gone around the far side to the back yard.

The glass patio doors had been open, and Kris had been standing in the center of the kitchen near a stack of boxes, her back to the patio door, a peanut butter sandwich in one hand, a glass of grape Kool-aid in the other. She'd been watching the moving men, her stance jumpy, as if ready to bolt. When Joe had slid the screen door back, she had jumped, stared at the brothers with wide eyes, clutching the sandwich and the glass so hard that Kool-aid splashed from her shaking.

She only came up to maybe Frank's shoulder; she had to be younger than them, then. Before she could say anything, Joe was talking, to reassure her. "It's okay. We want to help. Our dad's a cop."

"A police detective," Frank said proudly.

"That woman said she kidnapped you! We can help you get back to your real mom and dad —"

Whatever Joe had expected, it wasn't what happened. Kris had screamed, hurled both sandwich and glass at them, soaking both Frank and Joe in purple water as they'd instinctively ducked, then she'd bolted further into the house, the stacked boxes crashing to the ground behind her. Footsteps ran up the stairs, a door slammed — Joe took off after her, Frank right behind him.

Burly, muscled arms grabbed them both, yanked them to a stop, hauled them back around. "What're you boys doing, bullying that little girl?"

Joe had glared up into the faces of the moving men, squirmed, fought to break free, only for the man to shake him, hard.

"It's those Hardy brats," another of the men said. "I'll get their dad."

At the time, Joe hadn't known what was worse, the man's bruising grip on his arm or Dad coming in a few minutes later, Mar right behind him. Both Mar and Dad had listened to the moving men's story of the brothers "bullying that wee mite and chasing her upstairs"; the man holding Joe had shaken Joe silent when he'd tried to tell his side to Dad. They hadn't been bullying, they hadn't, they'd just been trying to help!

Mar had gone upstairs, and there'd been muffled talk, then a door had opened and sobbing had broken out. Finally Mar had come back down, had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, stood quiet and solemn with her arms crossed, looking at Frank and Joe, both still dripping sticky grape Kool-aid.

"I'll talk to them," Dad said, taking both boys' arms and pushing them out the door and back to the house.

No. That had been worse. Much worse.

Dad hadn't yelled, had only talked in the same calm, even tones that he'd used when explaining Mom's sickness, but this time explaining something that neither brother had believed…

No. No one would do that. That'd been Frank's stubborn that-doesn't-make-sense argument, and Joe had totally agreed with his brother. No one could possibly want to do such things, not to a kid, not to a little girl like that.

Determined to prove Dad wrong, Frank had dragged Joe with him to the library — the suspicious librarian calling Dad first to get permission before allowing the boys into the adult stacks.

Both brothers had ended up with nightmares for a solid week.

Joe and Frank had left the Blaine house — no, they were escorted out, Mrs. Blaine's posture and attitude made that perfectly clear — both silent. But inside, Joe was seething.

Schizophrenic. Abomination. Possessed. Joe hadn't been able to believe what he was hearing. He'd barely been able to control his mouth, not wanting to get Stacy in more trouble, though he hadn't been able to resist baiting Mrs. Blaine. He knew both Frank and Kris had caught on, especially from the smile Kris had given him behind the adults' backs.

Somehow Joe held his silence all the way out to the van, even as he yanked the door open, far too hard. The rain had stopped, for the moment, at least, though the wind had that damp smell that meant more on the way. He dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the van door shut —

In the dark behind the driver's seat, Kris startled hard, caught herself, blinking at Joe as if not seeing him.

"That settles that." Frank sighed it out as he eased into the driver's seat; Kris passed him back the keys. "They'll have the roads cleared in the morning. I should have enough cash to cover another motel room."

"The Walkers'll put us up." Rubbing her temples, Kris leaned against the back of the driver's seat. "And they'll let us call home without charging an arm and leg. The diner's closed by now, and I really need to eat."

Joe could see Frank wavering. "I don't want to impose —"

"I don't want to explain to Mar why we didn't," Kris said.

Not to mention his and Frank's dad. Joe glanced towards her. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was making excuses for them to stay. "I said I'm not leaving," Joe said, to Frank. "I meant it."

"Joe," Frank sighed that out, too. "We told the sheriff. Stacy's schizophrenic, you heard the doctor. I don't like it either, but there's nothing more we can do."

"They also said she was possessed," Joe said, with heat. "You believe that, too?"

Frank settled back into the seat. "No." Quiet, frustrated. He started the van up, pulled out of the Blaines' driveway. "But they wouldn't have her on thorazine if she wasn't schizophrenic."

"Mann's not a psychiatrist," Kris said. "He's not qualified to diagnose mental stuff. Circle Hills doesn't have anyone like that."

Now Joe stared. That really sounded as if she was arguing his side, but from the way Kris'd talked before, she sided with the angry mob. But…Mann wasn't a psychiatrist? Something about that bit of information sat uneasily.

Frank shifted. "But he's a doctor —"

"He's a creep," Joe said. The way Mann had been looking at Kris — Joe hadn't liked it at all; the doctor's offer to escort Kris out to the van had set all Joe's alarms off. No. Something was very wrong.

"Yeah," Frank said, another sigh. "No argument there."

Silence in the back; Joe glanced towards Kris again. She was watching him, but looked away quickly when she saw Joe looking back.

"I just don't see what we can do about it." Frank's gaze was on the road ahead. "We can't adopt every emotional stray that we run across." He sounded tired, far too adult.

"The technical term," their emotional stray in the back said, "is 'run over'. Which Joe almost did."

Frank hadn't sounded all that firm, either. "I guess you're right," Joe said, sighing dramatically. "The sheriff told us to butt out. Maybe we should." It wasn't like the cops ever listened to them, anyway. At least, not at first.

"Nice try," Frank said, with a bare grin.

"Just trying your side out to see how I liked it," Joe said. "I didn't. She's in trouble. I'm helping her. End statement."

"More like she's pretty," Frank said dryly. "And she kissed you. That's the real reason." He slanted a sly glance at Joe. "Though that kiss could be an argument towards the crazy part."

"Thanks a lot," Joe said.

Frank insisted on stopping by the motel anyway, to let Phil and Chet know what was up; Joe went to the room with him and let the inevitable ribbing wash over without comment. When they came back down, Kris was in the lobby over by the rack of tourist-traps, reading a glossy hideous-orange and black pamphlet with a cartoony picture of a house on the front.

"Kris," Frank said tiredly, "c'mon. We don't have time for sight-seeing."

She stuffed the pamphlet into her back pocket. "Just checking something." Bland, innocent. "You'd be surprised what you can learn if you pay attention, for a change."

Word for word, one of Dad's sayings; it sounded like a dig at them, somehow. Joe eyed her, but Kris returned the gaze with no expression.

"You're playing mysterious again," Joe said, as they followed after Frank.

"I'm a girl," Kris said. "I'm supposed to be."

The Walkers were a pleasant surprise. Tom Walker was a tall red-head in his late thirties, with a quick smile and soft, intelligent eyes, his wife, Sharon, dark-haired and tired-looking, obviously pregnant, with a small silver cross at her neck — that gave Joe a bad, suspicious moment. But the Walkers had taken one look at the trio on their doorstep, ushered all three inside and ensconced them at the kitchen table with sandwiches and hot chocolate. Tom had called Mar himself to let her know of the delay, while Sharon brought out towels and made the three dry off — as well as a pair of sleeping bags and blankets for the couch, before the brothers or Kris had even asked.

"You're staying here," Sharon said firmly. "There's flooding on 28, and too many trees down — a tornado touched down just north of here. County patrol closed the roads."

"I'd offer the spare bedroom," Tom said, grinning at his wife, "but someone has me wallpapering it with Winnie the Pooh at the moment. 'Stinks to high heaven' is an understatement."

Relaxed, comfortable, casual. Joe hadn't planned to say anything about what had happened; the Walkers were practically strangers. They wouldn't be interested. But to Joe's further surprise, Kris started telling Tom the whole story, and both Joe and Frank ended up filling in their gaps. Joe couldn't keep the anger out of his words, anger over the mob, the sheriff, Mrs. Blaine.

Tom was silent, listening, until their words wound down. "The little girl that was hurt," Tom said finally, quietly, "is our next door neighbor. Jenny. Grant Stevens' daughter. She's at Wareham General right now, in ICU." His gaze flickered to Kris.

"So that gives them the right to hunt Stacy?" Joe said. "To chase her down with guns? To call her a witch?" These people were adults. They knew it was wrong. They knew it was a bad situation. Why didn't they step up and do something?

"He's not saying that, Joe," Frank said.

Tom only looked at Joe, a long, serious gaze. It was too much like the look Dad would give him, whenever Joe started questioning why the cops just couldn't get the bad guy…

Then Tom raised an eyebrow at Kris, who shook her head, and Tom sighed. "Turn it around, Joe. Let's say someone told you that there was going to be an accident, that your van's brakes would fail…and they did. And Frank there wound up in the hospital because of it. What would you be thinking?"

Direct challenge. Joe shifted uncomfortably. The obvious implication — Stacy had done it, somehow — put Joe right in with that angry mob of idiots that'd hunted Stacy with guns and tried to burn that house down. But the other way landed him in with Mrs. Blaine and that psychic 'abomination' nonsense…

"But if Stacy is schizophrenic," Frank said, "then she might not be aware of her actions. Or it was just a lucky guess. She saw something wrong with the car and tried to warn Grant about it."

Thank God for an everything-has-to-make-sense older brother…

"She's had a lot of lucky guesses, then," Tom said.

But Frank was never put off that easily. "Or she made her prediction after the fact. Said something vague and then made it apply to whatever happened, and people are getting caught up in it. It's like cold-reading — what?" That to Kris, who'd sighed.

"Nothing." Kris stared at her cup of hot chocolate.

"Been reading James Randi, I see," Tom said casually.

Frank looked suspicious. "Something wrong with that?"

"Not at all," Tom said. "Randi knows all the tricks. Hang on hard to that skepticism, boyo. It'll do a world of good." To Kris, "Don't ever discount this one. In some ways, he's going to see a lot clearer than you will."

That was an odd — no, weird — thing for Tom to say about someone he'd just met. Tom didn't sound anything like someone who was just a business colleague. Even stranger, Kris wasn't treating him like one; she acted more like Tom was an advisor than one of her mother's business associates.

"Stacy's being abused, Tom," Kris said quietly. "Mann's molesting her."

Dead silence. Joe raised his head. Dear God…

"C'mon, tag." Frank sounded uncomfortable. "I didn't like him either, but you can't just accuse like that."

Kris looked back down at her mug. "Stacy told me. She came outside."

"But they locked her in," Frank said.

She looked annoyed. "There's a big tree right out back the house. It's not that hard, even for a girl."

Joe's mouth quirked. He and Frank had both managed the same thing when they were kids, and they didn't have a tree right outside…and to their surprise, so had Kris when they'd dared her, and the Mountainhawk home didn't even have an ivy trellis.

"She told you?" Tom said evenly.

Kris opened her mouth, shut it. Then, "Almost. She said just enough. It wasn't hard to figure out."

"Speak you every man the truth to his neighbor," Sharon said softly, "Execute the judgement of truth and peace in your gates."

"Kris doesn't lie," Joe snapped. "Not about something like that."

"That's not what that quote means," Sharon said, with a direct look at Kris. "There is a world of difference between 'she said it' and 'I figured it out'. There is something called 'proof' that the law needs, before it can act." She rose to her feet, gave her husband a hug. "I'm off to bed. Don't keep them up too late, dear."

Mobs don't think, mobs don't have proof. Hearing his own words turned back on him like that — "But now you know it's going on," Joe said angrily. "If Stacy told Kris about it…"

Tom sighed. "But if Stacy won't report it…"

"Right," Joe said. "I heard that sheriff. Reporting anything to him is a waste of time. He just about said he agrees with the mob."

"From what Mrs. Blaine said," Frank said, "Stacy has a reputation for being weird, and they're saying she's schizophrenic. It'd be her word versus that doctor's."

"Whose side are you on?" Joe demanded.

Frank's gaze was calm. "Yours. My point is that Stacy might have tried to report it before, and no one's believed her."

"No one believed me, either," Kris said quietly. "After a while, you stop trying." She looked down. "Especially when it just brings more trouble."

"Mar believed you," Tom said.

"She didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," Tom said firmly. "Be aware of yours."

That really didn't sound like a simple "business associate". Who was this guy?

"I'm not putting you off," Tom went on. "But you need to look at the whole situation —"

"Such a wonderful grown-up phrase," Joe said bitterly. "It really means you don't want to get involved."

"Joe," Frank said.

Tom didn't lose the calm tone. "And what you really mean is 'why can't you handle it so I don't have to?'."

It was a hard, unexpected verbal slap. Joe stared, caught speechless.

"Well?" Tom pressed. "You've been raging pretty good on why can't someone do something — why do you expect everyone else to handle the responsibility you've claimed?" He leaned on the table, fixed Joe with a look. "Brother, get the beam out of your own eye before you go after the mote in mine."

Everyone was looking at Joe now. "But — but I'm just —"

"So?" Tom said. "Your brother there is 'just', and he figured out how to distract the mob so you could escape. Kris there is 'just', and she got into that house to warn you despite that mob. What are you going to do, besides bitch about the rest of us?"

Joe shoved to his feet. "But I don't know what to do!"

Silence settled.

"Welcome to adulthood." Tom settled into a casual lean against the counter. "That was the first honest thing you've said tonight. So…what do you want to happen?"

That was obvious, wasn't it? Joe opened his mouth, but then looked at Frank and Kris. Kris was still staring at her mug; Frank watched Tom with his usual serious-older-brother expression. "Well…to make sure Stacy's safe…"

"Uh-huh." It was a knowing drawl of sound. "Try again, boyo. You talked to Hollister. He said he'd talk to Grant and the others. The rest is up to Stacy, not you."

"What?"

Tom held up a hand. "Tonight started because she 'saw' an accident and told Grant about it. So…if you're accepting that Stacy is able to do such things…then she needs to learn to keep her mouth shut." Another look. "I'm not saying that Grant had any right to do what he did. But there is such a thing as being careful."

Joe shifted from foot to foot. If he accepted…but Kris had been doing similar things, and Joe and Frank had not been accepting it, had been teasing her about her 'magic tricks' for years…

"And if Stacy's not able to do such things?" Frank said, skeptical, challenging.

Tom shrugged. "She still needs to learn to not pull such tricks. No matter what's happening to her, she's still in control of her own actions." His gaze leveled on Joe again. "Don't bother saving someone from their own stupidity. It's almost always a waste of time."

What the sheriff had said, in less words: butt out of it. Joe said nothing, but inside, he was seething again.

"So…" Tom said, "…now that I've thoroughly jumped your case over accepting your own responsibility, the big question remains: what are you accepting responsibility for?"

Another slap; it caught Joe speechless again.

"You know, you don't sound like someone in R&D," Frank said.

Tom only grinned. "Our company's a bit different. Chats around the water cooler get real interesting, let me tell you."

"If Stacy's being abused," Joe said slowly, "she's not in control. She may not realize…I mean…I want to stop that. To help her get out of it."

"You believe what Kris says, then?" Tom said. "Keep in mind, legally, it's hearsay, and considering Kris's past, highly biased. At best, it's only Stacy's word versus Mann's. And he's a respected doctor in this town."

Kris was watching him. "Yes," Joe said quietly. "I do."

"Like Joe said," Frank said, "Kris doesn't lie."

"Okay," Tom said. "That's do-able. And it's enough for tonight. You three get some sleep. We can go at this with fresh minds tomorrow."

'We'. So despite his words, Tom was planning on helping them, then. Joe watched him leave the kitchen, unable to figure him out; like Frank said, Tom didn't sound like R&D. He didn't sound anything like a corporate suit, not one bit.

"I've got too many questions," Frank said, "and I'm way too tired to ask. Kris, you take the couch. Me and Joe can rough it on the floor."

Kris pushed to her feet. "Thank you," she said quietly, to Joe.

Joe snagged her arm as she brushed past. "Tag…" He swallowed, went for it. "I'm sorry. What I said. You're not a coward. You're never that." He raised his head, met her gaze. "And I believe you."

"Right up until Stacy kisses you again, you mean," Kris said, but to Joe's relief, her mouth quirked, a small smile.

"Oh good," Frank said dryly. "Now I don't have to explain to Phil why I locked you two in his trunk..."