the_kane_chronicles__book_one__the_red_pyramid

dropped the pencil.
A police inspector stood frowning in my doorway. “What are you doing?”
“Maths,” I said.
My ceiling was quite low, so the inspector had to stoop to come in. He wore a lint-colored
suit that matched his gray hair and his ashen face. “Now then, Sadie. I’m Chief Inspector
Williams. Let’s have a chat, shall we? Sit down.”
I didn’t sit, and neither did he, which must’ve annoyed him. It’s hard to look in charge
when you’re hunched over like Quasimodo.
“Tell me everything, please,” he said, “from the time your father came round to get you.”
“I already told the police at the museum.”
“Again, if you don’t mind.”
So I told him everything. Why not? His left eyebrow crept higher and higher as I told him
the strange bits like the glowing letters and serpent staff.
“Well, Sadie,” Inspector Williams said. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”
“I’m not lying, Inspector. And I think your eyebrow is trying to escape.” He tried to look
at his own eyebrows, then scowled. “Now, Sadie, I’m sure this is very hard on you.
I understand you want to protect your father’s reputation. But he’s gone now—”
“You mean through the floor in a coffin,” I insisted. “He’s not dead.” Inspector Williams
spread his hands. “Sadie, I’m very sorry. But we must find out why he did this act of…
well…”
“Act of what?”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Your father destroyed priceless artifacts and
apparently killed himself in the process. We’d very much like to know why.”
I stared at him. “Are you saying my father’s a terrorist? Are you mad?”
“We’ve made calls to some of your father’s associates. I understand his behavior had
become erratic since your mother’s death. He’d become withdrawn and obsessive in his
studies, spending more and more time in Egypt—”
“He’s a bloody Egyptologist! You should be looking for him, not asking stupid questions!”
“Sadie,” he said, and I could hear in his voice that he was resisting the urge to strangle me.
Strangely, I get this a lot from adults. “There are extremist groups in Egypt that object to
Egyptian artifacts being kept in other countries’ museums. These people might have
approached your father. Perhaps in his state, your father became an easy target for them. If
you’ve heard him mention any names—” I stormed past him to the window. I was so
angry I could hardly think. I refused to believe Dad was dead. No, no, no. And a terrorist?
Please. Why did adults have to be so thick? They always say “tell the truth,” and when
you do, they don’t believe you. What’s the point?
I stared down at the dark street. Suddenly that cold tingly feeling got worse than ever. I