Mom nods and extends her hand. “Thank you for your help today,” she says.

He shakes her hand, offers his to me, and leaves with no parting shots.

Several teachers and parents have gathered outside Mom’s office door. I take just a minute to let her know we won’t be meeting with Carolyn tonight but that I will call her later, after I’ve checked in at the office. I don’t add that I’ll be taking Daniel Frey home for the same reason I don’t tell her what I learned about Carolyn. Mom has enough on her plate right now without adding to her anxiety.

Frey is waiting for me at the back door to the office. We are at the edge of the parking lot when I realize David told me only that Frey lives in Mission Valley. Big valley and a lot of condos.Where're we going?

He gives me a sideways glance.So, you know I live in Mission Valley. You’ve already checked up on me. I guess I shouldn’t find that surprising.

He directs me to the freeway and then to take the off-ramp at Friar’s Road. During the twenty or so minutes it takes to get there, we don’t exchange a word, orally or mentally. I can’t tell if Frey is in my head, so I keep my thoughts carefully neutral. When we pull into his condo complex, he hands me a magnetic card that I slip into a reader, allowing us to enter the gated community.

It’s a very upscale community, perched above Qualcomm Stadium, with a view that extends over the shopping complexes that make up Mission and Fashion Valley and to the city. He directs me with a terse, turn right, then turn left, pull in here. “Here” is a numbered space that I presume is his. Empty, of course, since he doesn’t have a driver’s license.

So, you know that too, huh? You have been busy.

The look he gives me is a mixture of anger, contempt and disgust. The vibe he’s sending off, though, is tinged with something odd. Disappointment. Like I’ve let him down in some subtle way.

I shake my head and smile at that.You’ve been hanging around teenage girls way too long. The “I’m disappointed in you” shtick doesn’t work on me. I plan to find out everything I can about you. Now if you have nothing to hide, as you keep insisting, why not invite me in? You can answer some questions and make my job that much easier.

His fingers are wrapped around the door handle but he pauses and half-turns to face me.You have questions? Is that all? His smile is brittle.Sure. Why not? That way you can search the place, too, and you’ll know I’m not holding Trish captive in a broom closet.

Sarcasm comes through, even in telepathic communication. He realizes instantly that Trish’s disappearance doesn’t merit ridicule. He backs off with an apologetic shrug.I’m sorry. I will do everything I can to help you find Trish. She’s a good kid and I don’t want anything to happen to her.

I cut the engine and grab my purse to follow him. I believe him when he says he wants her to be safe. But that doesn’t mean I’m convinced he didn’t play a part in her disappearance.

Or that I trust him.

Frey’s home is like his classroom-stark and monochromatic. We enter through a foyer devoid of furniture, though it’s big enough for several pieces, and pass into the living room. The walls, the furniture, and the carpet all echo the same color-gray, a shade as elusive as smoke. No art on the walls. No books with colorful jackets. Nothing in the room to break the monotony except rainbows of light that skitter into the room from a dozen small globes hung from a balustrade on the deck outside. The deck faces due west, and I imagine the colorful light show must perform its dance from morning to night.

It’s nice, isn’t it?Frey’s tone is a purr.The moment I walked into this place, I knew it was exactly what I wanted. The sun all day long.

His face is turned to the window, uplifted, his eyes closed.

In that moment, I see the cat in his nature as clearly as if he’d completed the shapeshift he’d begun in his classroom. I wonder if he curls up in front of that window and-I clear my head of that disturbing thought before the image becomes too clear and Frey picks up on it.

What else do I know about cats? Isn’t there something about the way they see color-or more precisely, the way theydon’t see color? Explains the monochromatic themes of his home and classroom and something else.

Is that why you don’t drive? You can’t distinguish colors?

He’s followed my line of reasoning and replies with a deliberate roll of his shoulders, his face remains tilted to the sun.Part of the reason. It’s not that I can’t distinguish colors exactly, though the subtleties are lost on me. But I have no desire to drive. The highways here are always congested and the people who use them drive like maniacs. I hire someone who takes me to and from school and since I live right across from a shopping mall, I rarely need other transportation.

He rouses himself to face me.Would you like to see the rest of the place?

I nod and he beckons me to follow him. He leads me down a hall with two closed doors, one on either side, and stops in front of the door on the left. He opens it and gestures me through.

It’s a library, simply furnished with floor to ceiling bookcases on three walls, two comfortable easy chairs with goose necked reading lamps perched behind them, and a small table in between. This room reflects the teacher in Frey. The shelves are lined with literary classics whose covers are worn and in some cases, cracked and peeling. There is a subtle odor-the kind you smell in antiquarian bookstores-dust, old paper, the perfume of aged leather.

I run a finger along the spines of the closest shelf. Expensive collection for a high school teacher.Are these all first editions?

He smiles but says nothing.

He seems to be waiting for me to make some kind of move. I shrug at his non-response and reach for one of the books. A copy of Rebecca . I open it to the first pages and read, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” But something isn’t right. I hold the book closer to my eyes. Is it a trick of light or my imagination? The words seem to float above the paper rather than being imprinted upon it. I look up at Frey.

Again he smiles and nods toward the book in my hands.

When I look back at the page, the letters are fading like a blackout in a movie, and in their place, some kind of strange markings have emerged.

Frey, what is this?

He takes the book from my hand, laughing at my startled reaction.It’smy security system.

What do you mean?

He fans the pages gently.If you were human, you would see nothing except the Du Maurier text. Because you are not, you see what really is.

Which is?

Frey closes the book. His fingers trace the top of the binding while his eyes sweep the shelves.These are my textbooks.

Textbooks? The writing looks like ancient hieroglyphics. Are these textbooks on Egyptian history? Logical, I guess, considering how they felt about cats.

He laughs, but I suspect it’s not at the humor in what I’ve said, but the absurdity.

No. Not Egyptian history. This book,“he hefts it, ”It’s a text on locator spells.

Locator spells?I glance around the room.All these books are about magic?

And very dangerous stuff in the wrong hands.

You mean human hands?

His eyes grow dark.

I let my gaze wander over the shelves. There must be two hundred volumes, all bearing the names of modern classics.How did you come to be in possession of such a collection?

Hesighs.It was a legacy. Like how you came by Avery’s property.

He says it with quiet nonchalance, as if everyone knows about Avery and me.