(Thanks to Cub for the title!!)

***

“Hello, Hardy residence,” eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy said into the phone.

“You sound like a secretary,” his younger brother remarked from the other side of the living room. “I always expect you to say ‘can I help you?’”

Frank nearly retorted, but caught himself just in time. He contented himself with rolling his eyes and turning his back on Joe’s grin as a worried female voice asked, “May I speak to Frank or Joe, please?”

“This is Frank.” The teen’s dark eyes clouded briefly as he tried to identify the familiar-sounding speaker.

“Oh! I thought it was your father. Frank, this is Lydia Cohen.”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Cohen. What’s up?” Of course- Phil’s mother. Frank hadn’t seen or talked to her in a long time, despite his close friendship with her son. Lydia's large home was in the north-west corner of Bayport; she seldom came down to the south-east area of town, preferring New York City and her friends there to the little seaport. She also seldom entertained, though whether that was because she was so often away, or for some other reason, Frank didn't know- and didn't much care. Phil was friendly enough- always had been- and if he was a bit shy, he had never been snobbish; that was good enough for the Hardys and their friends.

“I was wondering if you’d seen Philip?”

“Not since yesterday evening,” Frank began. “He was with us at-”

“No, no- sometime this afternoon," Lydia interrupted anxiously. "He was here for lunch and then he left without saying where he was going or when he’d be back.”

Frank hesitated, slightly taken aback by the woman’s manner. The Lydia Cohen he remembered was a serene, cool, almost cold woman; gracious, but proper and aloof. “No, we haven’t seen him, but we’ve been home all day and he hasn’t come by or called. If you’d like, I can call around and see if anyone else has spotted him,” he offered.

“Oh, would you?” The woman’s relief was almost palpable. “Thank you, Frank. I’d do it myself, but I don’t have any phone number but yours.”

“Sure thing. If anyone’s seen him, I’ll tell them to get in touch with you.”

“Excellent, thank you.” A click resounded in Frank’s ear. He frowned as he hung up the phone and turned back to his brother.

"Trouble?"

"Maybe. And by the way, I'm not a secretary," Frank added, giving his brother a mock-reproving look.

“I didn't say you were one; I said you sounded like one.” Joe grinned unrepentantly from his seat on the sofa. The brothers had been deep in a game of Trivial Pursuit while waiting for one of their father's contacts to telephone. "Very businesslike."

"A simple hello might be good enough for my simple little brother, but I'm a bit more complex. I like a more complicated greeting that lets people know exactly who they've reached," Frank explained airily.

“Oh, I see, in case it's a wrong number."

Frank gave his brother a perplexed stare. “Say again?”

"Well, Dad's clients and contacts know who Dad is, and our friends know who we are. So the only people who’d need to be told who they’re calling are wrong numbers."

Frank snorted, strode across the room, grabbed one of the sofa pillows, and swatted his brother with it. Joe flung up his arms and ducked, catching the pillow as it landed and tweaking it out of Frank’s unresisting hands. "You sure you don't want to be a lawyer?" the elder Hardy asked sardonically as Joe stuffed the pillow behind his back.

"Hey! There's no need to be insulting!" the younger boy protested, and they both laughed. "So what’s up with Phil?” Joe added after a moment.

“Oh... Ms Cohen says Phil left after lunch without telling her where he was going or when he’d be back,” Frank began, suddenly feeling a little foolish.

“After lunch? Frank, it’s-” Joe paused to look at his watch “-barely two-thirty. Assuming lunch was at noon-”

“I know, I know, two and a half hours isn‘t much of a disappearance. But she sounded so worried, I guess I went on autopilot.” Frank ran his hand through his dark hair. True, even that brief an absence could spell danger- but not likely for Phil, who didn’t make a habit of getting into the sort of situations the Hardy boys did.

“So you said you’d call around.” Joe sat up straighter, a good-natured smile crossing his face. “Guess it can’t hurt, unless embarrassment is fatal.”

“Gee, thanks,” Frank grumbled, trying not to grin at the teasing. “Whose embarrassment, anyway- mine, or Phil’s for having his mom get all upset in such a short time?”

“Either?” Joe suggested innocently. “Or both!”

“I dunno.” Frank sobered. “I have a sort of feeling she wasn’t telling the whole story. You know how aloof she normally is- but she sounded really worried. Maybe she has reason to be.”

“Maybe,” the younger boy said thoughtfully. “But I can’t see Phil getting into much trouble. And even if he did, it would likely be more computer-oriented than anything physical.”

“Well, sometimes trouble just happens, Joe.”

“Tell me about it.” Joe’s blue eyes lifted briefly ceilingwards. “But if she thinks he is in trouble, she shoulda said so,” he added, getting to his feet and wandering towards the kitchen. “Give us some idea what to expect.”

Frank nodded, shrugged, picked up the phone and began dialing.

***

“Well, that was a dead end.” Frank hung up the telephone with a clunk. Joe looked up from the Trivial Pursuit card he was holding to see his older brother frowning down at the receiver.

“No luck at all?” Joe put down the card and picked up the soda he’d fetched from the refrigerator half an hour ago.

“No, none of the gang’s seen him since yesterday. Everyone promised to call Lydia if they do spot him, though.”

“That’s kinda odd,” Joe mused, swirling the soda can absently. “He might’ve gone to the library or something- though I dunno why he’d do that when he can look everything he wants up on the ‘net. Heck, he could probably find out what the real deal is with the Bermuda Triangle, if he’d just put his mind to it. I keep suggesting it, but he’s not interested.”

“Yeah.” Frank was still frowning absently at the phone, apparently not heeding the joke. “What I don’t get is why he didn’t tell his mom where he was going.”

“Maybe they had a disagreement. Might be why she sounded upset,” Joe speculated. “Oh, hey- did you try Michelle’s?” he added, suddenly remembering the girl that Phil had recently started dating.

“I didn’t think of her,” Frank replied, looking a little startled. “I can’t get used to the thought of Phil having a girlfriend, actually,” he added ruefully.

“Yeah, join the crowd,” Joe said, getting up from the sofa and crossing the living room. “Everyone was kinda taken by surprise when they started going out. I’m still amazed that he pulled his attention away from his ‘first love’ long enough to notice her. Especially since they met in computer class!”

Frank chuckled, pushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “While you’d be the first to notice a pretty blond with green eyes, no matter what class she was in,” he teased. “And Iola would have to get out your leash.”

Joe gave his brother a friendly punch, then suggested, “Try information. I bet if Phil’s anywhere, he’s with her.”

“And if he’s not with her, he’s dropped off the face of the planet?” Frank asked wryly, dialing. Joe pretended not to hear that as he went to toss his empty soda can into the recycle bin outside the kitchen door. Then he returned to hear the results of his suggestion.

“No answer,” Frank reported, hanging up the phone. “I bet that’s where he is- or they’re out together, I guess. Shoulda thought of that first.”

“Oh well, at least we know our find-a-friend support hotline is in good working shape.”

“We?” Frank repeated significantly, his eyebrows arching. “What’s this ‘we’ business? I’m the one who’s now got a bad case of telephone-ear!”

“Well, I was in the room with you, wasn’t I?” Joe asked innocently. “So it counts as we-” A second later he fled up the stairs, laughing, Frank hot on his heels. He didn’t quite manage to get the door of his bedroom closed before Frank charged in, and there was a bit of rough-and-tumble before their mother called up to them to settle down or take it outside.

In the uproar, both boys forgot that Lydia Cohen hadn’t been notified of their hypothesis yet, and by the time they went to bed that night, it had slipped their minds entirely.

***

“Mind if I get online?”

Frank stopped writing and glanced up at the figure in his doorway, then shook his head. “Go ahead, I just finished with it,” he replied, dropping his pencil into the notebook and letting the cover close. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“Thanks.” Joe walked in, seated himself at Frank’s computer desk-chair, and reached down to press the power button. “Do I have BO or something?”

“Huh?” Frank stood up from his bed with a puzzled look.

“You’re evacuating,” the younger boy explained over his shoulder.

“Oh.” Frank chuckled. “No, I’m writing up some leftover bits from our last case. And as much as I’d like to hang out and listen to you argue at the machine, I think I better find a place where I can concentrate.” Joe had the amusing, if sometimes disconcerting habit of talking to the computer as if it understood every word he said.

“Ah, okay. Don’t sprain your wrist. I know how often those ‘bits’ turn out to be a couple paragraphs each.”

“I’ll do my best not to.” Frank gave his brother’s hair a light mussing, then hurried out of the room, hearing the complaint that drifted out the door behind him. Grinning, he descended the steps to the living room and settled into his favorite easy chair. He opened the notebook, found his place, chewed on the pencil for a moment, and then began writing.

Joe’s wry observation turned out to be correct; the more Frank wrote, the more he found himself remembering. Two long paragraphs and fifteen minutes later, the older Hardy was still scribbling down his impressions when Joe’s voice echoed down from the upstairs.

“Hey Frank!”

“What?”

“Email!”

“I’ll look at it when you’re done,” the eighteen-year-old replied, pausing to shake the cramps from his right hand.

“It’s from Phil,” Joe called back, sounding serious. “And it doesn’t look good.”

A blend of curiosity and anxiety sent Frank back up the stairs at a trot, notebook forgotten in his hurry. “What do you mean, it doesn’t look good? He didn’t break up with ‘Chelle, did he?”

“No, it’s worse than that.” Joe turned to look up at Frank, his usually merry blue eyes worried. “Read it yourself.”

Frank braced one hand on the back of the chair and leaned over to read the brief text. His eyes narrowed in bewilderment and he re-read the message aloud. “ ‘Sorry I didn’t say goodbye in person. Please don’t look for me. I’m leaving Bayport and I don’t want to be found. If you really want to know why, you can ask my mother, but don’t expect to get much help from her. I might come back, I might not. You’ve been great friends and I’ll miss you.’ What the heck is going on?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Joe replied anxiously. “I'm having an awful vivid memory of when Biff and Chet got kidnapped and taken to Hermit Island and they were forced to write us those phony postcards saying they were okay. But I can’t imagine who’d kidnap Phil.”

“Well, the Starks and their buddies thought Chet and Biff were you and I, that time,” Frank reminded his brother. “Maybe someone thought Phil was me?”

“In glasses?” Joe pointed out rather cryptically.

“True.” Frank frowned. “I’ll do a trace on the email, but that’s not going to tell us much. Even if it did come from his own machine, someone might’ve made him write it before they took him away.”

“I hope we’re being paranoid,” Joe muttered, sliding out of the chair. Frank sat down and started hitting keys.

“So do I, but I can’t think of any reason for him to just leave. Of course, that doesn’t mean much, Phil’s not the confiding type.”

“You can say that again.”

Frank paused for a moment in his typing, musing over his own remark. “If we are being paranoid…” He hesitated, then started over. “It says he doesn’t want us looking for him. So either his kidnapper is trying to delay us so he can get away, which means we’ll have to work fast, or-”

“Or, Phil really doesn’t want us following him. So if we work fast and find him, he might get upset about us ignoring his note,” Joe concluded, and sighed. “On the whole, I think I’d rather risk him getting mad than have it turn out to be a kidnapping and us do nothing about it.”

“Ditto,” the dark-haired boy agreed grimly, and continued with his email trace. “And his mother is very well off; it might be a case of ransom.”

“That’s certainly true...the email’s dated yesterday,” Joe remarked thoughtfully. “And yesterday his mother called, wondering where he was...”

Frank paused again, twisting around to meet his brother’s serious gaze. “That’s right, and she sounded worried. Maybe she has more reason to be than we thought.”

“You said you didn’t think she was telling you everything,” Joe reminded him. “So maybe she knows why someone would go after Phil. Or at least suspects who’s behind it. That might explain why she didn’t tell us, if all she has is a suspicion.”

Frank nodded, then leaned his arm against the back of the chair. “That’s another thing that points to him being taken against his will: if there’s something going on that's noticeable enough for his mother to get suspicious-”

“Not necessarily. He didn’t tell her where he was going, remember? Maybe he wanted a head start out of town.”

“I wish you’d make up your mind what stance you’re taking,” Frank remarked without malice, turning back to the monitor.

“I don’t know what to think,” Joe murmured. “I just hope he’s okay.”

“Me, too.” For a few moments there was only the sound of rapid typing and the occasional whir of the computer’s drive.

“I just remembered something,” Joe ventured after a while.

“Hmm?” Frank murmured distractedly.

“Phil’s eighteenth birthday was two weeks ago.”

Frank’s fingers paused in their rapid dance over the keys. “So...if he did leave Bayport on his own, the cops won’t be able to bring him back. He’s not a runaway minor.”

“Exactly. But then why wouldn’t he have left the next day, if he was waiting to turn eighteen and leave?”

Frank considered that as the information flickered across the screen. He could think of several reasons why Phil wouldn’t leave immediately, the primary one being his new girlfriend. “I have a suggestion,” he said at last. “Let’s behave as if it is a kidnapping, until we know for sure that it’s not. If we keep going back and forth on this, we’re just going to confuse ourselves and waste time.”

Joe didn’t respond at once, but finally said, “All right, better to work on the worst-case and maybe eliminate it than take the best-case and turn out wrong. I guess this is when being a pessimist comes in handy, huh?”

“Realist,” Frank corrected him absently. “Hmmm...well, the message came from his computer, and it was sent by an automatic email distributor.”

“Which is...?”

“That’s when you write the email ahead of time, then use a little program to decide what time and day you want to send it. That way you don’t have to be there to hit send. Especially useful with the constant-access connections,” Frank explained.

“Oh, so it wouldn’t work on our dial-up.”

“Well, it’d work, you’d just have to make sure the connection was on.”

“Ah. Got it.” Joe took a deep breath. “So what now?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it,” the older boy muttered. “I think-” He broke off with a start as the telephone rang. Both the boys turned towards the door of the bedroom, but after that single ring, all was quiet. “Dad must’ve gotten it. Speaking of Dad, we should tell him about it. And then we might want to go to police headquarters and tell them about this email. Lydia’s probably going to contact them, we might as well see if she’ll tell them the whole story.”

“Maybe we should go see her first and see if she'll explain any more, so we don’t have to depend on Smuff to try and keep us in the dark,” Joe suggested dryly.

“Good point.” Frank gave him a taut smile.

Oscar Smuff, the oldest and lowest-ranked member of the Bayport police force, had a high opinion of himself and a low opinion of private investigators. Thus, he flattered himself that he was a better detective than Fenton Hardy. The fact that Fenton Hardy had solved far more crimes, and those of much greater importance than Smuff's, didn't register; the police detective scoffed at Fenton's 'run of good luck' and groused that no one took note of all Smuff's ‘hard work’.

In reality, Smuff was a first-class bungler, and his 'hard work' consisted of reaching extraordinarily far-fetched conclusions based on no evidence but his own certainty. Luckily, most of his mistakes resulted in him chasing quite the wrong people, rather than inadvertently spooking the right people- like the time when he’d mistaken Police Chief Collig’s wife for the female member of a local criminal ring.

The Hardy boys were Smuff’s particular bane; he bitterly resented the teens who were already far more competent detectives than he could ever be, and he did everything in his power to hinder the ‘meddling brats’.

“I still wonder why that man’s employed with the force at all,” Joe remarked unkindly. “Collig’s been wanting to get rid of him for ages; you’d think after all his botch-ups, the chief would’ve fired him for incompetence by now.”

“You’d think,” Frank agreed, printing out a copy of the email. “There must be some reason, though. Maybe he accidentally saved the chief’s life once, or something. Anyway, let's go see if Dad’s free and then get over to Phil’s house.”

“Aye aye, chief.”

“Frank? Joe?”

Joe started at the sound of his father’s voice, muffled by the distance between the study-office and Frank’s bedroom. He glanced at his brother’s equally startled face and remarked, “I guess he is.” Rising, he followed Frank out of the room and down the hall. As he went, he laid a bet with himself that this summons had to do with the phone call Fenton had just received. “I hope it’s nothing major,” he murmured to his brother, and Frank nodded tensely.

***

“What’s up, Dad?” Frank asked as the boys entered the study and settled into chairs.

“You heard the phone, I suppose?” Fenton Hardy glanced up from the piece of paper he was studying, his ruggedly handsome face more serious than usual. “That was Lydia Cohen-”

“Phil’s mom,” Joe said in surprise, glancing at his brother.

“Might’ve guessed,” Frank answered. “We never did call her back yesterday, and if she got a note, too-”

“A note? You know something about it already, then?” their father queried, leaning back in his chair.

“We got this about ten minutes ago- right before the phone call,” the older boy said soberly, handing the copied email to Fenton. The detective read the brief note and his eyebrows lifted.

“Interesting.”

Frank sat back down and briefly outlined their conclusions. The part about Phil’s recent birthday drew a ‘hmmmm’ from the detective, but he said nothing until Frank was done. Then he considered in silence for several minutes, and finally nodded, looking up at them. “I think you’ve got the right tactic, to treat it as a kidnapping until we know otherwise. Lydia has not yet informed the police-”

“Publicity?” Joe guessed.

“Lack of confidence,” his father replied. “Besides, there’s the twenty-four hour requirement to keep in mind. They won’t even begin investigating until after three p.m., and most of it will be formalities.”

“Which aren’t a lot of help. But we can start on it at once, and not worry about the formalities,” Frank contributed.

“Exactly. And if ransom or blackmail is involved, the quieter it stays, the better. To be honest, I’m more inclined to think of it as a run-away than a kidnapping, but running away can be extremely perilous in its own right. Plus, it tends to make the situation worse, not solve whatever problem is behind it. Assuming there is one.”

“And his own words about not getting- how’d he say it?” Joe frowned.

“Don’t expect to get much help from her.” The detective let the paper fall to his desk. “Yes, that does sound like someone who’s angry.”

“So it might just be that Phil had a big fight with his mom and decided to get out of town and cool off,” Frank concluded.

“But we won’t assume that’s the answer. There may indeed have been a fight, but someone may have used that as a pretext to make Phil’s disappearance look less suspicious.” Fenton frowned briefly. “What can you tell me about Phil?”

Both the boys were quiet for a moment. “Well,” Joe said slowly, “his parents divorced when he was little. I’ve never heard him talk about his father.”

“He told me once that his father cheated on his mother,” Frank spoke up, suddenly becoming aware of how little he knew about his friend. “But he didn't say much more than that. I suspect that might be why Lydia never remarried.”

“Lost her trust, huh?” Joe shook his head. “That’s a shame. Phil doesn’t talk about himself much,” he added after a thoughtful pause. “He’s quiet and very smart, smiles but doesn’t laugh often; appreciates a joke but doesn’t make many himself.”

Frank nodded agreement. “He wondered once if he had any half-siblings,” the older boy remarked musingly, recalling the brief discussion. “He never actually out and said that he’d like to mend bridges with his father, but I got a sort of feeling, from the way he said it, that he missed his dad and wanted to know how he was doing. I dunno how much he blamed his father, though, or whether they kept in touch- probably not, if he didn’t know whether his dad had any more kids or not.” He shrugged.

Joe scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “He really kept to himself, come to think about it,” he remarked, looking at his brother. “I hardly know more than what his favorite food is and what music he likes. And a computer whiz, of course. Guess he talks more to you than to me.”

Frank considered that, his head tilted in thought. “Not really. It was more like he’d let something slip out and then quickly change the subject. Almost like he wanted to talk about personal stuff, but something was stopping him. Like when he said that about his potential half-siblings, I made some remark about it might be nice, after being an only kid, but-” he paused and threw Joe a half-smile “that little brothers weren’t always an advantage.”

“Oh, thanks,” Joe shot back wryly as their father smiled.

“And what did Phil say to that?”

“That’s just it- nothing. Shrugged and started talking about a science project he’d had in mind to do. Not rudely, but I did feel like I’d said the wrong thing- as if- as if maybe he did once have a younger brother and lost him. Or maybe...ah, I dunno. There’s too many maybes, and he never gave me the slightest notion which of them might be the right one,” Frank explained, leaning back in the chair and holding out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“Still, that bit about his siblings- half-siblings- is a good possibility, Frank,” Fenton remarked. “There’s a chance that Phil spent some of his time finding out where his father is, perhaps contacting him.”

“And maybe Lydia found out about it and got on Phil’s case about it?” Joe suggested. “And Phil decided he had every right to get in touch with his own father, and went to do so?”

“It’s a hypothesis,” his father agreed, nodding. “And waiting until he was eighteen ensures that his mother can’t invoke her custody rights.”

“It also might be why his mother won’t be much help- either she doesn’t know where her ex-husband is, or she wants so little to do with him that she just won’t talk about him,” Frank speculated, sitting up again.

“Well, with or without her assistance, we can look into that aspect.” Their father stood up from his desk and regarded them with approval. “But it would be good to verify the hypothesis first, so why don’t we drive out and talk to Ms Cohen?”

***

“Oh, thank you for coming over. I’m so concerned! Philip has never done anything like this before, I just know something terrible must have happened to him! Please come inside...yes...hello, boys...” Lydia Cohen- tall, pale, elegantly clad in a dress of cream silk, black hair perfectly coiffed- closed the door behind Frank, barely missing his heels in her agitation. “And none of your friends ever called me!” she added reproachfully, her dark eyes darting from Frank to Joe.

“None of them had seen him,” Frank began, feeling slightly guilty. “We figured he was with Michelle, since no one answered the phone when I called over there. And when you didn’t call back, we thought he must have come home safely.”

“Oh...oh, I see. No, Michelle was out with her parents yesterday, taking their puppy to the vet. Such a sweet, patient girl. Please, sit down, Mr. Hardy. Boys-”

“I thought,” the detective said mildly, taking a seat, “that perhaps Frank and Joe could look over Phil’s computer and see what they find, while you and I discuss other aspects.”

“Oh, what a good idea!” Lydia suddenly beamed as brightly as her glittering diamond necklace. Frank wondered if she always dressed so expensively; Bayport wasn't exactly high society, and flaunting such jewelry was a bit pretentious. “I know nothing about computers, but Phil loves his so- do you think he might have left some kind of warning or hint behind?”

“It’s possible,” Fenton agreed. “Also, sometimes youngsters who are skilled with computers might find themselves in unexpected situations. For example, if Phil was dared or goaded into doing something not quite on the level- or even ran into something accidentally in the course of some research...”

“Oh my, I didn’t even think of that.” Lydia sank down in a creamy-white chaise lounge and fanned her face with a delicate white hand. The slender fingers of her other hand dug red-tipped nails into the fabric. “Oh dear, the FBI will be after him!”

“Now, I’m sure we can prevent that,” the boys’ father said soothingly. “Fellows...”

“Sure, Dad, we’ll see what we can find.” Frank took another glance around the intensely feminine cream-and-beige living room. Lacy drapes with a pastel flower print; immaculate pale-white sofa and matching chairs and footstools; spotless soft-tan carpet; pink-marble-topped coffee table; a baby-grand piano in the corner; crystals dangling from the overhead chandelier; a dark-stained wood whatnot cabinet full of dainty china and silver and gold...

Frank turned and followed his brother up the carpeted steps, internally shaking his head. The feminine motif continued in the powder-blue hall with the ornate picture-frames that hung on each wall. He glanced into in the mint-green bathroom with its ocean-colored sink and tile, dainty towels, and seashell-shaped soaps, noting the scent of rose potpourri. At the far end of the hall were two doors, one straight ahead, the other to the right of it. Joe opened the first one, revealing a rose bedroom: canopy bed with rose and wine hangings, lace-lined silk comforter with a giant rose pattern; cream-lace smothered pillows; a large cherry wardrobe, makeup table, bathroom door; dusty-rose carpet...

“I don’t think that’s Phil’s room,” Joe muttered dryly, closing the door on the heavy smell of lavender. At least, Frank thought it was lavender; the odor was so heavy, it was hard to tell.

“I think I understand why he never had any of us come over,” he responded softly. “Can you imagine the gang here?”

“No.” Joe opened the other door and both of them stepped into Phil’s room as into a sanctuary from the overpowering femininity of the rest of the house. “Even Auntie’s room hasn’t got that much lace in it!”

“Not even half.” Frank glanced around, then went to Phil’s pale-wood desk and sat down in the black computer chair. “I’ll see what I can do with this; you look around.” He switched on the computer and waited for it to warm up.

“I hate doing this in a friend’s room,” Joe complained, but obeyed. Frank watched for a moment as his brother started with the bed, pulling up the green-gray plaid blanket and looking underneath. Then the nightstand, then the small case of books... Turning his own attention to the now-active monitor, he studied the desktop screen with interest.

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to find,” Joe was muttering behind him. “But I bet I won’t find anything. Phil’s not likely to have scribbled stuff down on some paper and left it in a convenient drawer. If there’s anything, it’ll be on the computer.”

“Theoretically,” Frank admitted, regarding the icons and selecting the one labeled My Documents. “But everyone knows that, so maybe he decided to be unpredictable.”

“Maybe,” Joe grumbled. “But I’m still not sure what to look for.”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Frank assured him, frowning at the sub-folders scattered in the main folder. “Hmmmm...pc.”

“If I see it. Pc what?”

“A folder he named pc. Now is that going to be his personal stuff, or is it going to be a bunch of programs?” Frank clicked on it, smiling ruefully; Phil had often been teased about the appropriateness of his initials. A moment later, he felt his brother’s hand rest on his shoulder as Joe moved to stand behind the computer chair.

“Forget the room, I bet everything we want to know is in that folder. And if it isn’t, we can check the room later.”

Frank nodded, knowing that Joe was probably right- and also knowing how uncomfortable the younger boy was feeling. Searching a criminal’s hideout or safe house was one thing; intruding on a friend’s sanctuary was another thing entirely. He felt uncomfortable enough himself with what he was doing, despite the fact that Phil must’ve known someone would look through his personal things.

“Interesting,” Joe murmured as the pc folder opened and several documents were listed. “Kinda expected more stuff.”

“Maybe he emptied it out, anticipating that someone would look through it.”

“Yeah. He'd think of that.”

Frank opened the first document and blinked at the title. “What you want to know,” he read, frowning. “Looks like he anticipated us, too.” He felt Joe lean over and heard the blond boy’s intake of breath.

“It sure does!”

***

This is what you want to know.

Okay, so by now I’m out of town, my email program has started sending off to everyone on the list, and people are starting to wonder where I am. And if I’m right, the Hardys will be the first ones to come to my room and check out my stuff to see if I’ve left any hints of where I’m going.

Of course, the fact that I sent you guys your email first helps me draw that conclusion- I'm not that omniscient! Don’t worry, guys, I’m not annoyed about the thought of you going through my junk. I have run a couple major deletes, just for the sake of not being humiliated if we ever meet again…well, never mind that.

Seems like a good time to repeat that I hope you won’t try to track me down. And just to reassure you: I didn’t get into trouble or accidentally hack into the Pentagon or anything (that wouldn’t have been an accident, of course, but anyway-). I know you could probably find me in a snap, but I’m sure that by now you’ve remembered my birthday, right? Eighteen and legal to vote and fight- and leave home. So even if you do feel inclined to look for me, bear in mind: I do not want to come home- easy logic, right Frank? If I wanted to be at home, I wouldn’t’ve left- and I’m NOT going to be talked into coming back.

I don't know what Mom will tell you to explain my absence; almost wish I could be a fly on the wall to hear her make something up. I’ve made a bet with myself: she’ll hint (or worse) that I’ve gone to find my father. Not so. I’m sick of parents at the moment, and I doubt he’d be very interested. Point is, if she suggests him, ignore her. It’s all in her head.

So now I guess you want to know why. Okay: I’m leaving because I’m sick and tired of being ordered to live my life by someone else’s rules, opinions, and attitudes. Mom isn’t religious, she’s actually an atheist, but she got one of the narrowest, closed-off minds you could hope not to encounter. Scary, but some of her attitudes really do resemble a religious fanatic’s. Anything she disapproves of, she does with a vengeance. Mind you, she doesn’t call them ‘sins’, but she comes close enough: ‘twisted, unnatural, obscene’ and so on, I’ll spare you the litany. Then there’s the part where she says I’ll either end up in jail or in an insane asylum. Heck, just hanging out with Jamal Hopkins and/or Dave Mitchell makes me ‘a degenerate’ who’s ‘lowering himself’ to ‘consort with Those People’, people who ‘aren’t fit for decent humans to associate with.’ *&^%#@!

Sorry, got a little provoked there. Never knew my mother was such a bigot, did you? I envy you guys sometimes, must be nice to respect your parents instead of feeling hideously ashamed of them... Back to my point: her attitude in general was bad enough, but if there’s one thing she can’t stand, more than anything else, it’s homosexuality.

I can practically hear your minds clicking into high gear now. ‘Could it be? Is that it?’ Surprised? I was. Am, actually. Seems to be a recent development, wonder if it runs in families? Ah, but how could it? It’s just that Mom never showed any more interest in a man after she kicked Dad out, so I always did kinda wonder. I never could decide if she didn’t re-marry because she preferred being totally in control, or if she didn’t trust any adult males (for that matter, I don’t think she trusts adolescent ones, either) or if it was just a matter of not ‘liking’ them. For all I know, she’s been sneaking around with another woman and keeping it from me. Not that that’s hard to do, I avoided her a lot anyway…did you guess that?

Okay… I’m having a little trouble here. Actually, I’m stalling. Bear with me, I’ve only just managed to admit it to myself and now I’m trying to admit it to my friends. It's scary. I hope you guys won’t think badly of me or feel awkward or anything. Maybe that’s part of why I’m taking off...nah, you guys wouldn’t do that. It’s just Mom and her bloody intolerance. Look, I’m turning British! ‘Bloody’. Maybe I’ll go to England. I did pack my passport, just so you know; I could be anywhere in the world within a day and a half. Emptied out my bank account, too. I'll give her this, she was pretty generous with my allowance.

Right, I’ll quit rambling now. Deep breath. Write it, Phil: “I am gay.”

God, that was difficult. I deleted it like four times. So: I’m Gay, I’m Gay, I’m GAY.

I’m *shaking*, actually. I can handle this…

So I haven’t exactly, you know, put this to any kind of test, but there’s really no room for doubt in my mind. And Mom- well, she- you could say we had an explosion about it when I told her I wasn’t going to be seeing Michelle anymore. (I put all that in Michelle’s email, just so you don’t feel like you’ve got the burden of telling her. I liked her, but there was no real romance and I think she figured it out.)

The fight was about three weeks ago and I decided then that enough was enough and started making plans. You remember how much I enjoyed my birthday, right? Now you know why. I felt so free. I could’ve left, then and there…but I didn’t because part of me kept hoping Mom would get reasonable- or at least less unreasonable. Right, when chickens get buck teeth, or maybe sometime after that.

Sorry I didn’t tell you guys what was going down. I just didn’t have the nerve. Guess I’m a bit of a chicken at heart, doing it this way, indirectly. It’s just really hard for me to tell people things. Dunno why. And I guess I thought you’d try and talk me out of leaving. And- as I said- I kinda worried what everyone’s reactions would be. I did think and hope you two would be cool with it- with me being gay, I might’s well get used to saying it. But I wasn’t sure about, like, Biff and Tony and Chet and all. Especially Biff. Maybe I’m misjudging him, but he’s always been such the tough macho type. Then again, maybe I’m paranoid. Visualize me shrugging here.

You guys have been fantastic friends and we’ve had some excellent times. I think I’m going to miss you two the most, out of everyone I know. I’ll be lonely for the town and the gang, and I will come back someday just to say hi and see how everyone’s doing, but I’ve no clue (ha ha) when that will be. Frank, take whatever catches your eye among my programs and stuff. By the time I get another computer, it’ll be all obsolete; someone might as well get some use out of it. And Joe, you mentioned borrowing a book or seven- help yourself. I imagine Mom’ll do a general toss-out anyway, eventually- totally expect to be disowned over this- and I hate to think of my books ending up in some dumpster with rotting crap all over them. : /

Take care, you guys, and don’t get hurt in one of those mysteries of yours. If you do, I’ll have to yell at you.

And thanks for everything.

*PC*

***

“Whoa.” Joe Hardy slowly straightened up from his leaning-over posture and rubbed absently at the crick in his neck. There were far more comfortable ways of reading a text document than standing behind Frank’s chair and leaning forward, but he’d been so caught up in Phil’s letter that it hadn’t occurred to him to change his stance. “That...”

“...Is unexpected,” his older brother finished for him.

For a long moment, the silence filled the little bedroom that had belonged to Phil Cohen. Joe frowned at the glowing monitor screen and the words there, struggling to sort through his feelings. Lydia Cohen, a closed-minded bigot? Phil, gay? Breaking up with Michelle...leaving home... “But it sure does clarify whether he went on his own or not,” he said at last, more to break the silence than anything. “Unless the kidnapper-” he added, frowning.

“You really think a kidnapper would let him write all that? Especially the part about the passport? That’ll make it very easy to track him, once we- well, Dad- digs up the number on it,” Frank replied, glancing back at him.

“Well, that’s true,” Joe agreed quietly, feeling a little foolish. “You’re right, it does look like it's all his own decision.”

“The only other thing I can think of is that maybe his father really is behind it but Phil doesn’t want us to know for some reason,” Frank mused.

“Like his own safety?”

“Like that, yeah.”

“So then why would he mention his father at all?” Joe asked. “All that does is put him on the suspect list. I mean, as a way of not drawing attention to yourself, this method stinks.”

Frank gave him a bewildered glance. “What’re you trying to say?”

Joe sighed. Gut instinct was so hard to explain to his brother. “I’m saying that if you’re trying to coerce someone into doing something, you want to keep a low profile. And you don’t accomplish that by letting someone draw attention to you; you do it by avoiding all references to yourself and making them drop some fake leads, some kind of diversion. You certainly don’t let them mention an ID that can be traced as easily as a passport. So I have some pretty major doubts that Phil’s dad is involved with this.”

“Oh!” Frank’s eyebrows lifted and he was silent a moment; then he looked up and nodded. “Makes sense, and you’re probably right. It doesn’t seem intricate enough to be something underhanded. Of course, they’ll check on his father anyway, it’s standard procedure- but they probably won’t find anything. Well, not related to this, anyway,” he concluded, waving at the computer.

“Yeah. And if they do happen to find something, it’s none of our business,” Joe murmured, pleased at the praise.

There was a pause, and then Frank spoke again: “I think at some level, we knew. I think that’s why we were all so surprised when he started seeing Michelle.”

Joe frowned, then shrugged. “I dunno. I never really gave it much thought one way or the other, but I have just as tough a time seeing Phil with a guy- romantically- as with a girl. He always seemed kinda...neither, to me.”

Frank seemed to muse over that for a moment, then shrugged, turning in the chair to face Joe. “Well, either way, at least we have a better idea of what’s going on. The question is, what is Lydia going to say to this?”

“That, and what do we do about it?” Joe reminded him. “Personally, I think-” The blond boy never got a chance to finish; footsteps in the hall, accompanied by the sound of his father’s voice, made him break off. Both the boys turned to look at the door as it opened and the two adults entered.

***

Fenton Hardy's first reaction to Lydia Cohen was one of distaste. The woman was brittle, a veneer of gentility covering an interior of poison and instability. Her face and form were attractive, her gestures graceful and her voice sweet, but that sweet voice made statements that had first startled, and then disgusted the detective. She spoke contemptuously of her son one moment, then begged Fenton to find her darling and bring him home. She used shockingly crude language when talking of the boy's father, hinting at crimes and deviant behavior and disparaging his manhood in the most direct terms, blaming him for every wrong in her life- including the present situation- while reveling in the fact that she was free of him.

Fenton managed not to let his reactions show, but he quietly concluded that the woman was another of the typical types that he so often ran across in his work with this social class: selfish, controlling, intolerant and highly opinionated. A spoiled child in the body of a grown woman. Her son might well have arranged quite legitimately to see his father, and might have been very relieved to go; Lydia's comments on her ex-husband left Fenton with no doubt that the woman was capable of claiming kidnapping when there was none.

Except that this theory didn't fit with the email his sons had received. There had to be something else here, something the supposedly distraught mother was not revealing, despite her biting bluntness.

It was when Fenton turned the discussion to Phil's friends that his distaste became active contempt. Lydia's comments reflected a mixture of scorn and amusement: Philip, it seemed, did not have 'friends'. He was superior to the general youth of Bayport as a diamond was superior to chipped glass, and only with equals could one claim friendship. Philip didn't quite understand that himself, and being in his teens he was in a rebellious stage, so he claimed the most horribly unsuitable people as 'friends' of his. Well, of course Mr. Hardy's talented sons didn't fall into that category; they were, in fact, the only things close to friends Philip had. But the dear boy would insist on spending time with the common children- and even- Lydia lowered her voice, expressing her horror at the thought- with minorities: African Americans among them.

However, African-Americans was not the word she used.

Despite his control, Fenton's eyes widened in shock and revulsion; Lydia, oblivious to his real reaction, took his expression for a mirror of her own. "Horrifying, isn't it? I'm sure your sons would never do such a thing- but then, they've had a father to teach them properly. I do try, of course, but really, a boy needs a masculine authority figure to shake the silliness out of him. If there were only suitable men in this...backwater...but of course all the suitable ones are otherwise occupied, and so old-fashioned about it." The woman's voice turned sour, as though she couldn't understand why any 'suitable' man would chose to be faithful to his wife instead of dancing attendance on Lydia.

Fenton mentally added arrogance to his growing checklist of Mrs. Cohen's traits, then made his decision. "Well, I think I have all I need, for the moment," he told her, rising from the overly-soft, perfume-laden couch. "Why don't we see what Frank and Joe might have found. Then we'll inform the police and see what steps need to be taken. I doubt it will be necessary to carry out an extended investigation." Or indeed, any investigation at all.

Lydia agreed, her mask of serenity restored, and followed him up the stairs with every appearance of demureness, a pose that made the detective suspicious and a bit anxious. He didn't at all like the way this woman's moods shifted from regally in control to hateful and bitter and cruel and then to maidenly modest. Perhaps there was more to it than mood swings- schizophrenia, or possibly multiple personality disorder. That was another aspect to investigate- discreetly, of course- and the detective added it to his mental checklist. There was the possibility that Lydia might have threatened or intimidated or even actually harmed her son, provoking his reaction to leave town. ‘Even if she didn’t,’ Fenton thought sympathetically, ‘I can certainly see why he’d be eager to leave. I wouldn’t stick around a day longer than I had to, either.’

“Which room is Phil’s?” he inquired, turning half-around as he reached the top of the steps.

“Oh, the one to the side,” Lydia replied, smiling sweetly at him and batting her eyelashes. Fenton hid his shudder and turned away. He did not like this woman at all. Composing his face, he opened the door and smiled at his sons, who had both turned to look at him. He recognized the expressions on their faces; they had found something important.