Chapter 1: The Afternoon Flight

Early Wednesday Afternoon, July 16th

A rusty, blue minivan drove down the streets of Rustburg, the old factory district of Edgewater. The thirty-year-old vehicle fit perfectly in the decaying neighborhood. Located somewhat between Old Downtown and Uptown, nearly all the factories had closed over the years, making it the most rundown section of the city.

Sputtering, the minivan reached its destination, a small section of storefronts from the area’s glory years. Coming to a stop in front of Pourhouse, a corner dive bar, a seedy-looking man in his early thirties hopped out of the driver’s side. Muscular from physical labor, he had dirty blond hair, dark brown eyes, and a scruffy face from not shaving for nearly ten days.

Walking around to the front of his vehicle, the man stretched, studying the Do Not Park signs posted on the poles along the side of the street where he’d parked. Glancing back at the bar, he didn’t see any signs near his minivan. They appeared to be only in front of Castaways, Wash Hub, and the empty storefront at the other end of the building.

Shrugging at the unusual signs, the man didn’t bother to consider why the city would repair this block unless it planned to redevelop the entire area. Instead, he walked to Castaways' outer door. He pulled it open and entered the entryway, letting the door close behind him before he opened the inner glass door, jingling a bell above his head.

A maze of cluttered metal shelves welcomed the regular visitor. The shelves held a mishmash of electronics, many of them long outdated. One section held nearly every video game console manufactured, along with various game cartridges and discs. Several televisions were plugged in to show they worked, provide the owner with entertainment, or to test out one of the game consoles.

Rows of glass display cases ringed the interior’s perimeter. Inside sat inherited antique watches, discarded engagement rings, tarnished jewelry, and yellowing collectibles. On the wall above, various dented or scratched musical instruments hung on hooks. Everywhere, signs announced that the shop bought gold.

Everything reeked of desperate sales. Whether from dire financial straits or increasing drug habits. Only people in the know could recognize that some items were stolen, particularly anything new and shiny.

“I’m serious, Orlando. This whole half-box is filled with Silver Age books,” a rotund man declared. “This is pure money for you. Look, see this one? Showcase #35. That’s the Silver Age Atom’s second appearance.”

“You know I don’t deal with comics. I don’t understand them,” Orlando Nenno reminded from behind the metal cage that protected him. A fortyish-year-old man with a buzzcut to hide his receding black hairline, the owner of Castaways, rolled his eyes as his semi-regular customer jabbed his finger at the blue-and-red costumed figure on the cover.

“C’mon, Nenno, you know the Atom. Hell, I’ve seen you watching old cartoons around this place. He made appearances on the Superfriends,” the comic book seller said, attempting to jog the pawn shop owner’s memory.

“Fine. He looks familiar, but I don’t know enough to deal in this stuff, Rocmore.”

“It’s not that hard. You can use the internet, or Overstreet has price and grading guides,” Rocmore explained, unwilling to give up yet. “Everything in here is at least Very Good condition. Alright, alright, most are Good, but they’re still worth money. Hey, check out this, Brave and the Bold #30. Third appearance of the Justice League of America. The Justice League of America, Nenno! Shit, look at Wonder Woman in the center. You could diversify your clientele with more women.”

"Are those really worth money?" a skinny man asked, exiting one of the metal shelf-lined aisles.

“They absolutely are, buddy!” Rocmore announced, turning to face a potential buyer. Skimming the box, he searched for another key issue. “I got the first appearance of Captain Cold in here somewhere. He’s a great super crook.”

“And I can sell these anywhere?” the string bean questioned.

“No doubt! Don’t worry, I’ll give a fair–”

“Scrooby doesn’t have money to buy these, Rocmore. In fact, you wouldn’t be able to keep them in decent shape before selling them, even if you had money,” Orlando told the copper wire scrounger, who sometimes sold other odds and ends to Castaways that the scrapyard wouldn’t take.

“Hey, do I interfere in your transactions, Nenno?” Rocmore growled. “Butt out.”

“Alright, that’s it. Get out of here. I don’t want any of your hot comics, got that?” the pawnbroker challenged.

“Whoa! You’re besmirching my good name, slanderer! These are not stolen items. How dare you?”

“Fine. Then sell them to Villainville if they’re legit,” Orlando suggested about the local comic book shop. Enjoying the startled expression, the information broker confirmed a tiny kernel of information that he’d heard about a recent event. “Say, wasn’t there a comic book show down in Darlingport last weekend? Oh, you didn’t know? That’s too bad. You could’ve found plenty of–”

“This is an utter waste of my time. I won’t be back ever again,” Rocmore proclaimed, grabbing the half-box off the counter.

“You say that like every fifth visit,” Orlando called after the exiting thief. Watching Rocmore leave, the pawn shop owner noticed another customer near the far corner, where the firearms were displayed in glass cases. “Don’t even think about it, Ustev. You’re a known felon.”

“Ah, c’mon, Big O, I need a piece for—”

“No!”

“Do you got anything in back? Something special that can’t be–”

“Seriously? You’re asking me that in front of customers. Are you high?” Orlando challenged. “I can’t sell you any guns.”

“Scroobs, ain’t saying shit to no one. See? He’s leaving,” Ustev pointed out. Realizing he’d get nowhere with the shady pawnbroker today, the low-level stickup artist threw up his hands and followed the scrounger toward the door. “Sorry to hear about Ferwick, Galley.”

Stew Galley, the owner of the blue minivan, flinched at the remark. Recovering quickly, he thanked the fellow criminal for his condolences over the death of his occasional partner. In the entryway, Scrooby also commented on the popular crook's tragic loss.

“I’m sorry, too,” Orlando said, once his shop cleared out except for Galley. “Not very many guys were as well-liked as Winston. Have you heard anything?”

“No, nothing,” Galley responded. Then, as if thinking it over, he glanced around the empty store before leaning on the counter near Orlando. “Don’t repeat this, but Ferwick and Hurley had a job planned together that I skipped. I didn’t like the sound of it, so they wanted to find an extra hand or two.”

“Ah, I understand,” the pawnbroker/snitch said, nodding. Next, he shifted from discussing a recent death to business. “One thing I’ll say about you, Stew: your visits are like clockwork. Almost the same time every Wednesday afternoon. What do you have for me?”

“Watches. High-end Galassos, my man,” Galley revealed, placing a small bag on the counter. The surprised expression on the fence’s face created a “chi-ching” sound in his mind. Pleased, he planned to suggest taking their business into the backroom, but the buyer leaned to look past him.

“Uh, do you still drive that shitty blue minivan?” Orlando inquired.

“Don’t knock my ride…Why?”

“I think it just rolled past the window,” the pawn shop owner revealed.

“What?!”

Stew Galley turned to look down the aisle at the partially obscured window. Initially confused, he started to run toward the front window, then changed his mind. Backtracking down the cramped aisle, Galley rushed through the inner door into the entryway, only to slam into the outer door, which refused to open. Two hard shoves did nothing until the inner door closed, letting the outside door open.

Scurrying onto the sidewalk, Galley looked to his left. The minivan wasn’t where he’d parked it. Swinging around to his right, Stew gasped at the sight of his slowly rolling vehicle already up on the curb. At this rate, he realized the minivan would hit the light pole before it reached the intersecting side street.

“Shit!”

Running down the sidewalk, Galley passed the laundromat before reaching the doorway that led upstairs to apartments over Wash Hub and the empty storefront. That’s when Stew felt a disturbance behind his left ear as something whizzed past him. A black net wrapped around a light pole, causing him to screech to a halt.

“What the?” Galley gasped, staring at the net before spinning around to check behind him.

Reaching into his pocket, Stew struggled to pull something out as he ran toward Wash Hub. With the lower portion of the dirty windows covered, he scanned inside, looking up and down the rows of washing machines and dryers. The only people he saw inside were two women near the laundromat’s rear. The middle-aged woman appeared to be getting change from the dispenser, while the elderly woman folded clothes she had pulled out of the dryer. Neither seemed to notice him.

Galley finally managed to pull his 9mm from his pocket as he backed away toward Castaways. A quick glance found Orlando peering out the best he could over a display case in front of the window. The pawnbroker raised his hands when he noticed the handgun.

“Fuck,” Galley cursed, realizing the net couldn’t have come from the pawn shop. That left the corner tap, which he hurried toward.

Inside Castaways, Orlando watched Galley head next door.

“Dumbass,” the fence mumbled, knowing he’d better double-check his stolen goods in back. If Galley started a shootout, the police would surely check in on the pawnbroker.

Walking down the aisle filled with small appliances, Nenno paused at the end. He stepped back and turned slightly to his left. With narrowed eyes, he frowned at the small flip phone that sat open on the shelf. Picking it up, Orlando recognized a burner phone when he saw one. A check of the screen displayed the ongoing call’s duration: eight minutes. Another check showed the number the phone had called.

“Ah, fuck,” Orlando groaned, snapping the phone shut.

Galley entered Pourhouse through the front door, gun raised.

“Afternoon, Stew, I thought you might–Whoa! Don’t do anything crazy now,” Flick, the regular bartender, said, noticing the pistol.

“Keep your hands where I can see them. Who’s in here?” Galley questioned, dashing past the front window toward the corner and putting his back to the wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Flick challenged. “It’s a slow day.”

“Who?!” Galley screamed. Looking at the nonplussed retired thief sitting on a barstool, he waved the gun in the man’s direction. “Besides, Orson. Did someone just come in here?”

“N-No. Barely anyone has been in here,” Flick answered, as Galley peered around the front room.

A clinking sound in the back drew Galley’s attention. Moving slowly down the center of the bar, he barked a question about the people in back, playing pool. He also kept a wary eye on the side entrance to his right.

“They’ve been back there for almost half an hour,” Flick said, glancing at the digital clock behind him.

With his hand shaking slightly, Galley rounded the corner while leading with his gun hand. In the back room, he found a lone man idly knocking around the balls on the billiards table. When the stocky man turned to glance at Galley, Stew stopped dead.

“Rattigan?” he asked, surprised.

Then, the sound of the men’s room door opening caused Galley to swing around to point the pistol at the exiting man. A slimmer version of the man at the pool table, he pulled a phone away from his ear.

“What’s with the gun, Galley?” Floyd Rattigan inquired, glancing at his brother. “Garth, did you hustle somebody already? I swear, I only took a long piss.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stew questioned.

“Probably the same as you, I’d expect. Conducting business with Nenno and grabbing a few brews. Why? Did we wrong you in some way?” Floyd asked with an amused expression.

“Somebody just shot a net at me outside.”

"A net? Are you for real? How does one shoot a net? I can see dropping one, but I don't understand why they'd want you of all people," Floyd said, scoffing at the idea while he slid his phone into his pocket. "Who in their right mind would hunt you in Rustburg?"

“Ooh, it’s like that one Predator movie,’ Garth pointed out.

“Yeah, the second one with Danny Glover,” Floyd replied while Stew stared at them in confusion. “Good thing we’re not packing. I seem to recall those aliens only attack people who are armed.”

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Galley questioned as a buzzer rang, indicating someone had opened the side entrance.

Startled, he turned away from the Rattigans to check the direction he’d come from.

BLAM

“Hurley!” Galley shouted, nearly simultaneously with the bullet that he fired at one of his occasional partners. “Shit!”

The shooter's curse came from his cohort ducking back outside. Growing frantic about why Hurley might be after him, Galley scanned his surroundings. He glanced at the Rattigans as Garth backed away, while Floyd leaned on a table.

“You see the wonders of Rustburg that we missed while up at Mug Jug, Garth? Oh, how I love the unpredictability,” the more intelligent of the two brothers cracked.

“Shut up!” Galley screamed at Floyd, struggling to decide what to do.

The most obvious solution won when the gunman ran out of the corner tap's rear door. Outside in the alley, Galley surveyed the area before realizing his screw-up. The entrance to the alley near Pourhouse was essentially a dead end, as a dumpster had been lodged into the usual opening.

Taking off, Stew scanned the doorways on both sides as he ran down the alley. If Hurley had come after him, he likely had help.

Out of nowhere, Galley felt and heard a white net fling past him. It missed, hitting a garbage can several feet in front of him. However, the fleeing man realized that the much thicker net had come from above. He turned around, aimed at the second-floor windows, and let loose a few rounds.

BLAM BLAM BLAM

“Motherfucker,” the shooter cursed as glass fell around him.

Not wasting any more time, Galley took off running for the other end of the alley. Nothing happened until he felt something snap down at his leg with only ten feet to go. Confused and concerned about what he had run into, Stew spun around as a large object swung past him by about three feet behind him.

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM

After unleashing the four shots, Galley gawked at the large burlap sack that slammed against the side of the building. Four separate waterfalls of salt began to rain down from where he shot the sack. Following a rope up to a second-story window, he glanced down and realized he'd snapped a tripwire, triggering a trap.

“What is happening?”

Running into the side street, Galley briefly considered making a dash for his minivan while glancing to his left. After a few seconds, he dismissed that option. The people after him probably had someone by his vehicle. No, the better option would be to steal a car. Nodding at his plan, the thief moved toward his right and down the side street. However, a voice made him stop.

"You're going to pay for murdering Ferwick, Galley. Justice is coming!" a voice bellowed, echoing around him in a way that didn't reveal its location.

“Justice is coming,” Galley repeated in a mutter. Then, his eyes bugged out.

No, no, no, it can’t be! But they do use arrows and gadgets, don’t they? Fuck! What are they doing in Edgewater?!

As if expecting arrows or additional nets to rain down on him, Galley spun around, realizing he might be an idiot for standing in the middle of the street. Snapping into action, he ran toward the next alley and dove into it.

Rolling, the prey kept on moving until he could get behind a dumpster to catch his breath. While he did so, Galley listened for any sounds. Not surprisingly, police sirens didn't fill the air. People around Rustburg didn't race to call the cops, and when they did, the Edgewater Police Department might not be in a hurry to respond.

Stew did hear footsteps on the cement pavement. A quick check didn't reveal anyone nearby, so it might have been people running on the street's sidewalk. Another check showed the coast was clear, so Galley made a break for the opposite end of the alley.

Huffing and puffing, Stew nearly reached the next side street until a cloaked hand appeared from one of the doorways. Two objects flew through the air and landed several feet in front of him, triggering explosions. Trying to stop, Galley tripped and slammed face-first onto the hard cement. In the process, he lost his grip on the gun while a strange purplish-gray smoke began to appear.

"Oh, gawd, no!" the frightened man screamed, scrambling around on his hands and knees in the smoke to search frantically for the pistol that had skidded away.

Three more explosions popped off, adding more of the weird smoke.

Then, Galley heard a crackle before intense pain began in his stomach, leading to a pulsating cramp that raced through his body.

Flipping onto his back, Galley's whole body seemed to convulse as the purplish smoke slowly dissipated. Even worse for the twitching murderer, a person in a dark purple hooded cloak appeared, standing above him.

“Action…Agency…bitch,” Stew said through gritted teeth.

“No. I am Zymona, the Entrancer,” the young woman announced, leaning over Galley to peer down at him.

Before the mysterious cloaked woman could say more, the loud footsteps echoed off the hard pavement. They slowed as a newcomer arrived, panting heavily.

“Wow! Who are you?” a voice asked, from the direction of the alley that Galley had fled down. “Phinn, do you see this? I think we have a superhero in Edgewater!”

---

“You were told to wait in the car, trainee,” Phineas Farris repeated, while scolding his twelve-year-old neighbor with an actual wagging finger. His other hand held the recovered 9mm pistol, which he waved around carelessly.

A skinny, if not scrawny, eighteen-year-old, Phinn had short, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and wore eyeglasses. A brilliant high school senior when it came to solving mysteries, the brainy detective could also be short with people his own age. That attitude often led people to label him antisocial.

"Wait, you told me that you wouldn't leave a person in the car while in this neighborhood. A claim about it being too dangerous," Johanna Zay recalled from her first-ever visit to Castaways a month ago. "And you ordered a grade school kid to wait in the car?"

“I’m going to be in junior high next year,” Corky King reminded the social media influencer.

“We left the windows cracked,” Phinn responded, throwing his hands up. “Don’t blame me. Jake’s the one who insisted that we let him tag along. Some nonsense about the leader of the new Proofpuffers needing field experience lessons from the pros.”

“It was hot in there,” Corky mumbled, feeling disappointed that he didn’t get to go up on the roof with Jake.

"The kid's not a dog," Johanna replied, gesturing at the copper-haired president of the official fan club for Busybody, Inc. "Would you leave Bandit in the car in this neighborhood?"

“I wouldn’t allow Jake to bring Bandit in the first place,” Phinn shot back, referring to Jake Magnum’s bulldog. “I tried to keep Corky away because I know I’m the one his mom will blame if he gets hurt, not Jake. Crap, I’m going to get blamed for this instead.”

The two eighteen-year-olds had started Busybody, Inc. nearly six years ago with another friend, Dusty Pinder. After Jake and Phinn dropped the detective agency's name and Dusty moved away, Corky kept calling his official fan club by that name. With Jake letting their younger neighbor tag along occasionally, Phinn wasn't happy about Johanna's apparent addition to their list of recurring associates. The influencer might be helpful, yet she also made numerous demands for that assistance.

“This is bullshit! It’s kidnapping! Let me go, or I’ll sue!” Stew Galley screamed from where he lay on the sidewalk, covered in a net.

“Spare me the complaining. You can tell the cops when they get here,” Phinn responded.

“Are they even coming? I thought that detective hung up on you,” Johanna pointed out. “Didn’t that happen during the cemetery thing? Wait, does it happen a lot?”

Corky started to nod, then noticed Phinn’s glare.

“Yes, Yelton hung up on me. He’s not happy that I have his home number or that we did his job for him. I mean, when we visited police headquarters on Saturday, he clearly didn’t have a clue about the murder he’d been assigned to. Damn fool knew nothing about Ferwick,” Phinn explained before reassuring the brunette. “And don’t fret, Jake responded by calling Vench. At least one homicide detective will take our calls with only minor bitching.”

“They should arrest you for false imprisonment!” Galley declared.

"Quiet! Or I'll let her tase you again," Phinn threatened. However, the brainy investigator studied the taser that the cloaked figure held in her hand. "Hang on. Is that my stun gun? Corky!"

"She made me hand it over, Phinn. I swear!" the young mystery-solver in-training insisted, pointing at the influencer instead of the cloaked newcomer. “I’m not lying. She threatened to call Brooke.”

Fully aware of Corky’s cousin’s sway over him, Phinn shot the influencer a stern look. Johanna merely shrugged at the revelation. Yes, she’d demanded he hand it over when she had arrived with the strangely dressed young woman.

“Yo, Farris, we’re leaving before the cops arrive. So, we’re square now, right?” Floyd Rattigan checked.

“No, you didn’t actually do anything.”

“We had a gun pointed in our faces! “ the thief argued.

“That’s nothing new. Hell, I pointed one at you last month,” Phinn pointed out.

“You’re lucky you didn’t shoot us,” Floyd shot back. “Look, we helped you catch Galley.”

“Fucking sellout! Wait until the word gets out about you helping the brats!” Stew threatened.

“Nobody is going to care, asshole, because everyone liked Winnie way more than you,” Garth declared.

While the Rattigans might have held a grudge against Busybody, Inc. for their latest stint in the state prison, the brothers also came from an extended family of criminals. They followed a strange code of honor among thieves. Murdering one of your partners crossed that line. Since Phinn had also done them a solid last month by covering for several crimes they committed during the sleuths’ case, they’d been receptive to providing assistance.

“We didn’t catch Galley; she did,” the bespectacled detective admitted, jabbing his thumb at the girl in the dark purple cloak. “Besides, I thought you wanted to help catch Ferwick’s murderer.”

“I didn’t murder Winston! He was my friend,” Stew insisted.

“Yes, you did. No, it’s quite clear, Galley. It took us a single day of legwork to find the proof,” Phinn shot back.

“What proof?”

“The Allstone heist and the murder scene. We found several pieces of damning physical evidence that the cops missed,” Jake replied, rejoining his partner. “Hurley also confirmed it.”

“The Allstone…shit,” Galley mumbled, rolling over so that they couldn’t see his face.

“We did want to catch Winnie’s killer. I mean it. He was a good guy in this line of work. And he was always sweet on our sister,” Floyd continued.

“Which sister?” Jake inquired, causing Phinn to roll his eyes.

“Which one do you think?” Floyd asked, glancing at Garth with a similar eye roll. “Still, we deserve some credit for helping.”

“Fine, part of the favor you owe us will be knocked down. That doesn’t mean all of the debt. Okay?” Phinn responded.

"Alright," the ex-con agreed. Ready to leave, he stopped to ask one final question. "Who's the chick with the smoke bombs?"

“Our classmate,” Jake answered.

“Really? Damn, your school is filled with crazy kids,” Floyd commented, shaking his head.

“She’s an actress,” Phinn revealed as the Rattigans left.

“So, Orlando is having a fit. He found the phone we paid Scrooby to leave inside his shop,” Jake relayed.

A popular two-way star for the North High football team, Jake had the social skills that Phinn lacked. The muscular athlete had short-to-medium dirty-blond hair and blue eyes that mesmerized many women. Beyond his charm with the opposite sex, Jake’s outgoing attitude frequently left him dealing with the people that Phinn upset. For several other reasons, Phinn often chose to play the role of Jake’s sidekick in public.

"He can keep having a fit. We're not after him, and we're not going to get him involved with the cops. Hell, it's going to be difficult enough to keep their names out of this, along with Hurley and the Rattigans," Phinn groaned.

“Yeah, that will be a pain. I just hope Reyhall doesn’t show up,” Jake said, referring to the deputy police chief who despised them. “I bet he’s going to be worse after our last case. Uh, what should we do until the cops arrive?”

“I suppose we need to find out Violet’s deal. She didn’t show up for no reason.”

“Ooh! I bet it’s to do with my costume,” Jake realized, slapping his forehead slightly.

“Costume?”

“The one for Waterfest. The Phantom Diver re-enactment. Well, it’s not a faithful retelling, you know,” the stocky detective reminded. Their earlier case’s local popularity had led to a request for a display performance at the upcoming city festival later this summer.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Phineas responded dryly. He wasn’t thrilled about Jake’s planned performance. “Yet, I doubt that’s why Violet showed up today.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Corky said he’d ask Brooke to ask Violet to help make the costume. Clearly, she has costume design skills,” the blond linebacker/tight end said, gesturing over at the purple cloak.

“No, you don’t say? You do realize that’s not a superhero costume, right?” Phinn checked. “It’s for other acting purposes.”

“I know. Damn, for a second I thought we had a masked vigilante in Edgewater,” Jake admitted, sounding devastated to learn the truth.

"Come on, we'd better ask before they arrive," Phinn said, meaning the police sirens off in the distance. With time running out, the two high school gumshoes approached their classmate. "Okay, what's the deal with intruding on our manhunt, Tipton?"

"Did I intrude? I would call it saving your asses," Violet Tipton stated, throwing her hood back to reveal her face. “Or do your investigations often descend into a series of failed traps and attempts?

The leading lady of the North High School drama club, Violet, stood at a medium height, with neck-length light-brown hair, blue eyes, and a medium bust. A versatile actress, Vi usually threw herself into her characters in a manner that somewhat resembled method acting.

“It’s not my fault that Jake can’t properly aim the net gun,” Phinn commented, sounding defensive. “I developed a solid plan. He’s rusty.”

“I’m not rusty! The net gun’s not working properly. I think it’s broken. Maybe if you’d taken better care of it…”

“I didn’t even know I had it up in the attic. I thought Dusty took it.”

“Pug’s probably been using it,” Jake said, referring to Phinn’s troublesome younger brother. “Besides, you’re the one who botched the trap.”

"First off, I set the trap with the expectation that Galley would run into the alley, not out. That's why the sack missed him by that much. Second, the trap was our backup plan after the net gun. Finally, I'm not a trapster. I'm not an expert like Dusty."

“Geez, do you two ever stop bickering like an old couple?” Violet asked, shaking her head. Next, she chuckled when Johanna and Corky also shook their heads at the question. “I planned to hire you, but after this demonstration, perhaps I should hire this other group that your killer seems scared of.”

“Who? The Factfinders?” Phinn speculated, scoffing at the only other teen detective group in the region.

“No. He said something like Action Agency,” Violet recalled.

“Who?” Phinn questioned, glancing at Jake, who shrugged.

"No way! Did you say Action Agency?" Corky questioned, looking ready to bounce all over the alley in excitement. "Wow, they're the greatest team–"

"We don't have time for nonsense, Cormac. The police have arrived," Phinn declared, cutting off their neighbor. "What's the case, Tipton?"

“Someone is out to ruin the Mirthmakers Fellowship.”

“Huh?” Jake responded.

"She's referring to her LARPing group," Phinn clarified. However, he realized that his best friend's continued confusion required further enlightenment. "It means live-action role-playing. Think of those RPGs that you hate watching Ethan and Galen play. This is similar, but rather than play with dice and miniatures on a table, they act out the adventures."

“That’s not the worst description that I’ve heard, Phineas,” Violet remarked. “However, this unexpected adventure is filled with your type of activities. Thievery, sabotage, threats, vandalism, and scare tactics. Are you interested in stopping all of this while exposing a ghost hoax?”

“Did you say a g-ghost?” Jake asked, his eyes widening.