How long have I been sitting here now I wonder? 24 hours maybe? I really don’t know anymore. Without any light I can’t tell if its day or night.

I feel tired though, so tired. I don’t think I want to fall asleep because I’m afraid that I’ll wake up and be hit with the sudden realization that I’m still here, still tied up and still alone.

"Hey, Mr Spider, are you still there?"

I can’t feel you moving anymore, you must have gotten bored with my one sided conversation. Can’t say I’d blame you really, I’m not on top form you understand.

You see these ropes are really starting to cut off the circulation to my feet and my hands. If this were the movies I’d have wriggled out of them by now and found the loose brick in the wall that triggers the secret escape hatch and be home by morning.

Funny the way that never happens in real life, isn’t it?

God, I’m turning into a right moaner, aren’t I? I guess being tied up for 24 hours straight will do that to you.

Dad always said that I am an eternal optimist, that I’d see the bright side in even the worst of situations.

I wish he were here now.

When I was younger I used to resent the fact the Dad was rarely home, and when he was he used to spend most of his time in his office going through papers or on the phone.

There were always strange people calling to his office, secretive people who had no time for little boys.

But then there were the good days, when he would announce that he was taking us to the cinema or the Zoo, or coming to watch one of our little league games.

The best times though, were the days when he would be in the middle of a load of paperwork and suddenly he would fling his pen onto the table, announcing that

"I’ve had enough of other people’s problems for one day"’.

Then he would take us to the park to play football or baseball for the afternoon and in the evening he would buy us hot dogs with onions and ketchup, and never once chided us for getting sauce on our clothes.

Those days didn’t happen that often but they all stick in my mind as being the happiest times I remember.

In many ways Dad and Frank are a lot alike, and I don’t just mean looks, I mean personality. They both analyze every situation half to death, and they both worry way to much about me.

Years ago, when we were helping Dad on cases as teenagers, I sat in Dads office for hours on end waiting for them to go through every minute detail of a case piece by piece, until I wanted to reach across the table and tear the papers in front of them into shreds!

They are both very so calm and rational too, usually I am the one to get worked up over something, to start ranting and raving.

I’ve often wondered what makes Fenton Hardy the detective so good at his job, and I think one of the main things is his ability is able to see through a person’s outer façade, whether they are a victim, a suspect or a hardened criminal.

He can draw information out of people so easily that sometimes its frightening, and often times it means that he gets too close to the people, which also partly explains why there are so many criminals out there with a grudge against him.

However it works, he usually manages to solve any case he comes up again.

One of the things that I’ve come to appreciate about my father is his ability to draw out the positive in people. There are lots of occasions when I seemed to be getting nowhere with a case and I’ll ring Dad.

He won’t offer any advice; just guide the conversation until suddenly it will dawn on me that in fact I had discovered the answer, it was staring me in the face all along.

Now that he’s getting a little older Frank and I often wonder what he will do when he finally reached retirement age.

Work has always been Dads life, his priority. Somehow it has become mine and Frank’s life now as well, which is strange, because we always said that we wouldn’t take up a career that would take us away from our families.

I mean yes, there were the good days when Dad was around, but there was often weeks and weeks when he wasn’t. There were times when Mom didn’t know where he was and she would worry and try and not let us know she was worried which made her even worse.

There were times when he would get injured and end up in the hospital. Then Aunt Gertrude would come and look after us while Mom kept an almost non-stop vigil by his bedside.

Once, when I was going through my teenage ‘I hate my dad phase’ I remember confronting him after a huge argument in the Den.

And he looked at me, and his eyes filled up with so much pain. When he spoke I knew that I had touched a raw nerve, a part of his heart that he tried not to bring to the surface.

And he was right. The day Frank and I solved out first case we felt it too, and knew that we would never do anything else.