The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(44)

“Hey,” she said, shooing a big orange cat back inside with her bare foot. “Come in.”

Somehow, Fenton’s house was everything Stevie knew it would be, and yet it still surprised her. The house smelled like cigarette smoke and cat and trash and a single scented candle that was probably supposed to cover all that but only made it worse. They had entered a living room that was mostly composed of books. Books on shelves. Books in stacks along the wall. Books all over a round table in the middle of the room. Books scattered on seats. There was a large television, and a cabinet full of DVDs. There were glasses and mugs everywhere, things in tinfoil that she could not identify. There were also some things that were likely Hunter’s—a coat, some sneakers, some books on the environment. As she scanned the room, she spotted two more cats hiding out in the scenery. The smell hung over it all. Stevie tried not to show it, but she couldn’t help but shield her nose.

“Something wrong?” Fenton said over the music.

“No, it’s . . .”

Fenton turned off the music and the silence was abrupt.

“You like the Rolling Stones?” she asked.

“I . . .”

“Best band in the world. Exile on Main Street. Best album in the world. No arguments. Does something stink? Hunter tells me that all the time. I lost my sense of smell years ago. Open a window if something smells off. Come into my office.”

Fenton put the unlit cigarette behind her ear and waved Stevie through a set of French doors covered in bamboo blinds. This room took things to a new level. The majority of the room was taken up by a massive walnut desk with a shaded green lamp. There was a much-used leather chair in the corner. There were books in here as well, kept in low, orderly stacks. These were interspersed with large cardboard file boxes and metal file cabinets. But it was the walls that really captured her attention. One wall was full of black-and-white photographs of people known to be in the house on the day of the kidnapping. There was a whole section of photos of Vorachek. Then photos of the house and grounds. Then maps, new and old. The one closest to Stevie was made of thin, frail paper but was in very good condition, showing the highways of Vermont in blocky blue ink. Several pushpins were in this map.

“Original road map printed in 1935,” Fenton said.

It was a conspiracy wall. A true, real conspiracy wall. The only things missing were the bits of string that connected the various points.

“So,” Fenton said, “how did we do?”

Stevie pushed over the notepad.

“I have two hundred and ninety out of three hundred and seven,” Stevie said. “A few things were missing. I couldn’t find the one china pattern you wanted.”

Fenton hmmed and flipped through the pad, rolling one of her gray spiral curls around her finger.

“Let me read through this,” she said. “Go and get yourself a Coke or something in the kitchen.”

Fenton waved Stevie off. Stevie went back through the living room, stopping to pet a big ginger cat on one of the sofas. The sofa was thick with cat hair, almost to the point where the color of the sofa was obscured. There were traces of cat litter around the floor, along with ash and specks of paper. Every exposed surface had water rings on it. She had a feeling that the kitchen would not be a pleasant experience, but some effort had been made. There were many dirty glasses, but they were clustered together by the sink. There were some empty wine bottles and a pizza box on the floor by the trash. Nothing good would come of opening the refrigerator. Stevie came from an uptight family, where the slightest smell or stain or smudge in the kitchen was unacceptable, and she just knew that there would be a smell in this fridge from something incorrectly sealed and outdated.

There were, however, some warm Cokes in a box on the floor. Stevie took one, opened it, and wiped the top of the can with her sleeve before sipping. She glanced through the pile of books on the table, and had just opened one about the Yorkshire Ripper when she heard the door open.

“Hey!” called a voice.

She leaned over to look and saw Hunter coming in the door, leaning his crutch against the wall and dropping his backpack to remove his puffer coat. Stevie leaned back in, feeling weird about being in his house, drinking his warm Coke, even though she was allowed to be here.

“I couldn’t get any limes,” he said. “But I bought some lunch meat . . .”

He came into the kitchen and blinked in surprise.

“Hey!” he said. “Oh. Hey. Sorry. Hi.”

“Hunter?” Fenton yelled.

“Yeah!”

“Get Stevie a Coke!”

Hunter smirked in gentle embarrassment and nodded at the Coke Stevie was holding.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s kind of a mess in here. Are you . . . working?”

“Your aunt is going through some stuff I did.”

“Oh. Cool.” Hunter looked around, as if he was sorry for intruding in his own house. There was something sunny about Hunter. He had light hair. The cut was a little too short, probably a cheap and fast one, or maybe a home job. His smattering of freckles made him look younger than he was.

“So,” he said, sitting down. “What’s Ellingham like?”

“Intense,” she said. “Really good. A lot.”

“So how did you get in?”

“I just wrote about how I was obsessed with the case,” she said. “I didn’t think they’d take me. Someone liked me, though.”