The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(43)

She tried to catch up with her classes, and for maybe a week she believed that she might even be able to do it. This confidence largely came from a one-night sprint doing Spanish modules until three in the morning. The burst left her feeling academic, maybe brilliant, maybe an unsung genius of her time. The euphoria came crashing down when she realized she was missing entire systems in anatomy, was four novels behind in English, and her history paper on the Harding presidency was something that would never really be written. Its existence was a little concept joke.

She had, however, made progress with Fenton’s requests. She had been doing long hours in the attic, going over the tedium of the list. Stevie did not know she could be bored by details about the Ellingham case, but Fenton had accomplished it.

Now, on Halloween morning, she was on the coach again, returning with the first properly completed piece of work she had done at her entire time at Ellingham. It was good to do something right.

Before going to Burlington, Stevie had to assure Janelle that she would be back in time for that night’s Halloween party. Stevie had always been Halloween ambivalent. There were many positive things about Halloween—true-crime shows always got an extra bump, other shows pulled out their murder-mystery episodes, and slinking around in the dark was generally more acceptable. But she could never get on board with the costumes. There was the first problem: being “cute.” That had been the message her whole life. As a child, Halloween was that day Stevie was stuffed into a Disney princess outfit against her will. “You look so cute,” her mom would say, as she safety-pinned the thin polyester Belle dress to the layer of warm clothes she had on underneath. “Don’t you want to be a princess?”

Stevie did not want to be a princess. She was not sure what princesses were, or what they did. She asked to be a different princess, like Princess Leia, but this was rejected. The reason was never given. Stevie pointed to every costume in the store—a ghost, a pirate, a banana. It was no use. It was the Disney princess every time, the same costumes pulled out over and over.

It was an understood thing that Janelle Franklin took Halloween very seriously. She had organized and planned for it with the same precision and attention to detail that she applied to everything in her life. Stevie had watched her construct a Wonder Woman costume piece by piece for a week, sewing, applying, cutting foam, spray painting, and hot-gluing. More than once she had called Stevie in for help, and during these times she had grilled Stevie on what she was going to be. She did not accept Stevie’s answer of someone who stays at home and does not wear a costume.

“Halloween is a chance to be whatever you want to be,” Janelle said as Stevie hot-glued a foam piece in the form of a gold W to a corset that Janelle was wearing. “It doesn’t have to be all sexy, sexy. That’s patriarchal bullshit. I’m Wonder Woman because I love Wonder Woman. Who do you love?”

“The people who work at DNA databases?” Stevie said, checking to make sure the W was secure.

“Okay. How about detectives? What about Sherlock Holmes?”

Stevie rolled her eyes.

“What’s wrong with Sherlock Holmes?” Janelle asked.

“Nothing is wrong with Sherlock Holmes,” Stevie said. “But he’s not a costume. He’s . . .”

Stevie waved her hands in the air to try to convey that you didn’t just dress up like the world’s greatest fictional detective, the one upon whom real-world detection techniques were based, and no, it wasn’t about the hat or the coat. Janelle guided her hand back carefully, because Stevie was still holding a hot-glue gun.

“Name another one,” Janelle said.

“I don’t know . . . Hercule Poirot.”

“Good!” Janelle said. “Fine. Do that.”

Stevie’s costume budget was basically ten dollars, and less if she could manage it. The school permitted students to use the costumes at the theater. There, Stevie had found a suit that—if not entirely up to the exacting standards of Belgium’s neatest detective—was good enough. She would slick back her hair and wear a hat. Vi had a can of dark spray that they would let Stevie use. She had bought the mustache online. She set all these things out on her bed on Saturday morning before getting on the coach to go to her meeting. Tonight, she had to play the part of detective. Now, she had to go to try to be one.

Fenton lived in the middle of Burlington, in the university area. The street she lived on was full of big Victorian houses that were likely once the homes of rich families. They had big wraparound porches that faced toward Lake Champlain. The university had taken over some of the fine brick buildings and made them into university property. The others—the big, rambling ones painted all kinds of colors—had been divided up into apartments for students, who put coolers and rocking chairs and hammocks on the porches and hung banners and tapestries in the windows.

Her house was a tiny sage-green one between a fraternity and a deli. It had a big screened-in front porch. This was filled with piles of newspapers, milk crates, and a lot of recycling. There was a theme in the recycling, Stevie noted. There were a lot of bottles in it. Many wine bottles, two whiskey bottles, a vodka bottle. She remembered Hunter picking up Fenton’s mug and examining it.

This gesture suddenly made a lot more sense.

There was music blasting inside, so Stevie had to knock for almost a full minute on the peeling green door before it opened. Fenton answered, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. Today she wore an old pair of mom jeans and a baggy black sweater.