the_kane_chronicles__book_one__the_red_pyramid

tossed me into my room and I waited. And waited.
I don’t like waiting.
I paced the floor. My room was nothing posh, just an attic space with a window and a bed
and a desk. There wasn’t much to do. Muffin sniffed my legs and her tail puffed up like a
bottlebrush. I suppose she doesn’t fancy the smell of museums. She hissed and
disappeared under the bed.
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered.
I opened the door, but the policewoman was standing guard.
“The inspector will be with you in a moment,” she told me. “Please stay inside.” I could
see downstairs—just a glimpse of Gramps pacing the room, wringing his hands, while
Carter and a police inspector talked on the sofa. I couldn’t make out what they were
saying.
“Could I just use the loo?” I asked the nice officer.
“No.” She closed the door in my face. As if I might rig an explosion in the toilet.
Honestly.
I dug out my iPod and scrolled through my playlist. Nothing struck me. I threw it on my
bed in disgust. When I’m too distracted for music, that is a very sad thing. I wondered
why Carter got to talk to the police first. It wasn’t fair.
I fiddled with the necklace Dad had given me. I’d never been sure what the symbol meant.
Carter’s was obviously an eye, but mine looked a bit like an angel, or perhaps a killer alien
robot.
Why on earth had Dad asked if I still had it? Of course I still had it. It was the only gift
he’d ever given me. Well, apart from Muffin, and with the cat’s attitude, I’m not sure I
would call her a proper gift.
Dad had practically abandoned me at age six, after all. The necklace was my one link to
him. On good days I would stare at it and remember him fondly. On bad days (which were
much more frequent) I would fling it across the room and stomp on it and curse him for
not being around, which I found quite therapeutic. But in the end, I always put it back on.
At any rate, during the weirdness at the museum—and I’m not making this up—the
necklace got hotter. I nearly took it off, but I couldn’t help wondering if it truly was
protecting me somehow.
I’ll make things right, Dad had said, with that guilty look he often gives me.
Well, colossal fail, Dad.
What had he been thinking? I wanted to believe it had all been a bad dream: the glowing
hieroglyphs, the snake staff, the coffin. Things like that simply don’t happen. But I knew