Underworld by Meg Cabot Page B

office, but I didn’t think that was the best idea. I wasn’t sure, but I thought Mr. Smith might have been close to having a stroke. He showed all the signs — incoherence of speech, staggered breath, sudden change in color.
    “Mr. Smith,” I said anxiously. “Could I get you a glass of water, or something?”
    “It’s just,” the cemetery sexton burst out, “this isn’t ancient Greece , John. You can’t simply whisk a girl off to the Underworld, and not expect there to be consequences .”
    The muscle in John’s jaw twitched some more. It was surprising to hear the word consequences from someone’s lips other than John’s. He used the word quite a lot, especially in reference to my behavior.
    “I’m aware of that, Mr. Smith,” he said.
    “I don’t think you are,” Mr. Smith said chidingly. “Because if you were, and you had to do it, as you claim — which I don’t believe you did, so I’m in no way condoning your behavior — you’d have shown a little more discretion, and the outcome wouldn’t be this .”
    Mr. Smith had found what he was looking for on his desk. He held up a copy of that day’s paper. Most of the front page was devoted to the storm, which was very definitely on its way.
    Mandatory evacuation for tourists , screamed the headline. Schools closed. Football game may be canceled.
    Underneath was a montage of color photographs of downtown business owners boarding up the plate glass windows of their restaurants and shops in preparation of the hurricane.
    I couldn’t see what any of that had to do with us. Probably he really was having a stroke.
    “Do you see it?” Mr. Smith demanded, tapping the paper.
    Farther down, in letters almost as large, was a headline about Jade’s murder. There was no photo of my uncle Chris, but I knew he was the “local man” who’d been picked up for questioning, thanks to a tip. Also that the “tip” had been an anonymous phone call that my uncle had been seen in the area around the time Jade was believed to have been killed, even though he’d been home, asleep. Uncle Chris had been released, but was still considered a suspect, in spite of the fact that there was no evidence whatsoever to connect him to the crime or to the victim. Some tip.
    “I’m sorry, no. I really don’t see what any of this —” I started to say.
    The cemetery sexton tapped the paper again, impatiently. “Here,” he said.
    I looked where he was tapping.
    Local Girl Missing, Feared Dead.
    Beneath it was a photo of me — my most recent school photo.
    “Oh, no.” My heart filling with dread, I took the paper from Mr. Smith’s hands. “Couldn’t they have found a better picture?”
    Mr. Smith looked at me sharply. “Miss Oliviera,” he said, his gray eyebrows lowered. “I realize it’s all the rage with you young people today to toss off flippant one-liners so you can get your own reality television shows. But I highly doubt MTV will be coming down to Isla Huesos to film you in the Underworld. So that can’t be all you have to say about this.”
    He was right, of course. Though I couldn’t say what I really wanted to, because John was in the room, and I didn’t want to make him feel worse than he already did.
    But what I wanted to do was burst into tears.
    “Is that about Pierce?” John looked uneasy. Outside, thunder rumbled again. This time, it sounded even closer than before.
    “Yes, of course, it is, John,” Mr. Smith said. There was something strange about his voice. He sounded almost as if he were mad at John. Only why would he be? John had done the right thing. He’d explained about the Furies. “What did you expect? Have you gotten to the part about the reward your father is offering for information leading to your safe return, Miss Oliviera?”
    My gaze flicked down the page. I wanted to throw up.
    “One million dollars?” My dad’s company, one of the largest providers in the world of products and services to the oil, gas, and military