Fear: 13 Stories of Suspense and Horror by R.L. Stine

reached for her change, I saw the cat ring on her finger!
    I told myself not to jump to conclusions. Many antiques are reproduced. Cheap imitations of poison rings are probably being cranked out in China and imported by the hundreds. I needed a closer look.
    As the woman collected her coffee, I stepped out of line so I could watch her. She was alone. When she set her coffee down to add cream to it, I stood beside her and reached for a napkin. As she stirred cream into her coffee, I studied the ring. The band had the burnished patina of old gold, and fine age lines were visible in the painted tile. I clearly saw the small clasp on the side, where the lid opened. It was an antique poison ring with a cat painted on the tile, and I was sure it belonged to Claire.
    When the woman left Starbucks I followed, staying near other shoppers so she wouldn’t notice me. I hoped to get the license plate number of her car. I removed my cell phone from my backpack and slipped it into my pocket, where I could grab it quickly to call the police. The bank robber had been a man, but this woman probably knew who he was.
    She broke into a run, waving at a city bus. As she boarded, I raced forward. The driver waited for me. I walked to a seat in the back, where I could watch the woman.
    We rode for ten minutes before she got off. I was afraid I would be too obvious if I exited with her, so I stayed on the bus and watched to see where she went. The woman entered a small brick apartment building. I got out at the next corner and walked back. The sign on the building said SERENE HOMES FOR SENIORS .
    She must be visiting someone. Well, it was still a clue. The police could talk to the residents and learn who had company today.
    I went inside. A row of mailboxes, with apartment numbers and the names of residents on them, lined one wall. I began copying the names into my notebook. I had written down about half of the names when the door to the closest apartment opened.
    I looked up, and froze. Mrs. Pameron’s nephew stared at me.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he asked.
    â€œI’m working on a school project,” I said. “I have to interview someone who remembers World War II.”
    He came forward and stood beside me. “You came to talk to Aunt Martha.”
    â€œShe lives here? I didn’t know that!”
    â€œGo inside.” He pointed toward the open apartment door.
    I backed away from him, toward the outside door. “I need to get home,” I said.
    â€œYou aren’t going anywhere.” He grabbed my arm and jerked me toward the room.
    â€œHelp!” I yelled.
    He yanked harder, shoved me inside the apartment, and slammed the door. He turned a dead-bolt lock.
    The woman I had followed was sitting on a sofa, watching Oprah and eating a candy bar. Mrs. Pameron sat at a round dining table. She smiled when she saw me. “Hello, dear,” she said, as if I visited regularly.
    The young woman muted the TV and looked at me. “Who’s she?” she asked.
    â€œHer mother owns one of the stores that buy antiques from Aunt Martha.”
    One of the stores? Mrs. Pameron sells to other shops besides ours ? Mom would be interested in that piece of news.
    â€œI saw her in Starbucks,” the woman said, “and on the bus.”
    â€œI knew it! She followed you! She suspects us, Britney.”
    The woman turned off the TV. “How could she suspect anything?” she asked.
    â€œWhy else would she follow you here?”
    â€œSuspects you of what?” I said.
    â€œIt was her,” Britney said, pointing at Mrs. Pameron. “She told!” She raised her hand as if to slap Mrs. Pameron.
    The old woman cringed.
    â€œNo!” I cried. “She didn’t tell me anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Britney lowered her hand.
    â€œRegardless of how much she knows,” the man said, “this changes the plan. We need to rob the other bank and