hy do all your brilliant ideas involve felonies?”

Hi looked ridiculous in his long-sleeved black shirt, black pants, and ski mask. I could tell he was sweating up a storm.

The four of us were crouched in azalea bushes bordering the alley behind the Charleston Public Library. It was 12:42 a.m. If Kit learned I was out, he’d ground me for the summer.

Earlier, before logging off, I’d outlined my plan. Before the boys could object, Kit knocked on my door. I’d slapped my Mac shut, jumped into bed, and feigned sleep.

I heard Kit hesitate, then retire to his bedroom. Bearlike snores soon echoed down the hallway.

I felt bad deceiving my father. For his sake, I hoped we wouldn’t get caught. And for mine.

Shelton’s whisper came from right at my back. “The library has to be wired for security, right?” Fifth time he’d said it. “It’s a relatively new building.”

“We won’t know until you pick the lock,” I repeated. “If something goes off, we bolt.”

The night was hot and sticky. Of course. Clouds blocked the moon and fog cloaked the city. Perfect conditions for a break-in.

A police cruiser lazily circled the block, then turned east up Calhoun Street. We’d watched it pass three times.

“Move!” Ben hissed. “Now’s our best chance.”

We darted toward a secluded alleyway door. I’d hoped the alarm system wasn’t more than we could handle, but both the key lock and deadbolt looked new and formidable.

“Guys.” Hi pointed ten yards down at a ground-level window.

A cracked-open window.

We scuttled along the wall.

Inserting two hands, Shelton pried up the sash. We held our breath.

No bells, alarms, or whistles. Big break for the felon squad.

One at a time, we shimmied through the gap. Ben lowered the window behind us, then thumbed a flashlight to life.

We were in a square room lined with empty shelves. In the center stretched a single long table. On it laid a dozen books and a half-empty cup filled with sodden cigarette butts.

“Thank you, Mister Nicotine,” I breathed. The sneaker of cancer sticks had forgotten to close the window. Spitefully, I hoped it was Limestone.

I refocused on our mission. Someone had looked at the files we’d examined on Monday. How else could they have learned our intentions?

How to prove it? Maybe even ID the jerk?

Fingerprints.

The plan was a shot in the dark. But if we had an enemy, we needed to know. Especially if that enemy had a gun and was willing to use it.

We followed Ben’s beam upstairs, all the while watching for security cameras. Spotting none, I grew more confident. What we needed would take only minutes.

Entering the South Carolina Room, we beelined to the microfilm reader. Rarely used in the Internet age, it was unlikely anyone had operated the antique since our visit two days earlier.

No one but our stalker, I hoped.

“Here goes nothing.” I switched on the ultraviolet light I’d lifted from Kit’s toolbox and moved it over the controls, searching for a miracle.

Not so much as a glimmer.

“What good’s this going to do us?” Ben asked.

“Fingertips have microscopic ridges and valleys to provide extra grip.” Hi’s voice was muffled by his mask. “The pattern is unique on every person.”

“I know that much,” Ben said. “What I mean is, how do you pick the buggers up?”

“Fingers get sweaty and oily, so they leave prints on almost everything.” I was rescanning the controls.

Still zilch.

“You can see some with the naked eye, but that’s unusual. Invisible prints are referred to as ‘latent.’ That’s really what I’m looking for.”

The microfilm reader was made of dark, glossy metal that was ideal for capturing latents. I ran the little blue spot over its surface.

Zip.

Moving to step two, I removed a bottle of fine gray powder and a magnetic brush from my pocket. “If a print is present, the tiny particles in this powder will cling to the oil and sweat,” I said. “That will make the ridges visible.”

I gently dusted the controls. No prints. I tried the machine’s outside surface. Nope. The screen. Zero. We’d struck out.

“Let’s bounce,” said Shelton. “We’ll think of something less likely to land us in jail.”

Sudden thought.

“Where are our prints? On this surface they should have lasted several weeks.”

“Maybe the janitor cleaned the machine,” said Hi.

“Or someone wiped it down,” said Ben. “To remove their own prints.”

Crap.

We’d broken into a government building for nothing. I was about to concede defeat, then had one last idea.

“Let’s check the Gazette film before we leave. No one else would’ve pulled that reel.”

Hi groaned, but hurried to retrieve it.

“Don’t touch it yourself!” Loud whisper.

Using his cat burglar mask to cover his hands, Hi teased the correct volume from the shelf and set it on the table.

Touching only the edges, I crisscrossed the reel with the light.

Nothing.

Disappointed, I scanned the opposite side.

Bold as high noon, an oval glowed white.

Repressing a squeal of delight, I dusted with the powder. The print emerged in spectacular detail.

“I’ll be damned,” Ben muttered under his breath.

“Let’s bag her and scram.” Shelton handed me a roll of scotch tape and an index card.

Moving cautiously, I pressed a section of tape over the powdered print. Then I pulled it back and stuck it on the card. A gray swirly pattern transferred to the paper.

Finally something went right.

For a nanosecond.!!!Thunk.

A car door slammed.

Hi raced to the window.

“Damn!”

Flashing blue-and-red light bathed his face.

“Outside!” he yelped. “Cops!”