Concealed in Death (In Death #38)(101)

“We’ll need a list of where you’ve retreated. And I want you to look through the quarters. I want to know what he took.”

“There’s an explanation for all of this. An innocent one.”

“Let’s start with the lists. And I want to see DeLonna’s old room.”

“DeLonna? DeLonna Jackson?”

“That’s right. I want to see the room she had when Shelby left.”

“I . . . God, my head. I can’t remember. Matron will. She’ll remember. I’m sorry, I have a raging headache. Just let me get a blocker. Nash has some.”

She walked slowly into the little bath—shower only—opened a little cabinet.

Then burst into tears.

“He took his toiletry kit. Oh sweet God, Nash, where are you?”

“Take care of her, Peabody. I’ll take Shivitz.”

“Got it. Let’s sit down a minute, Ms. Jones. I’ve got a blocker. Let’s sit down, and I’ll get you some water.”

“This doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense.”

Wrong, Eve thought as she started out. It was making perfect sense.

She put out a BOLO, flipped the resentful Shivitz by suggesting she order a soother for her boss. With that humanitarian mission to distract her, Eve wandered to what had been DeLonna’s room.

It was tiny, held two narrow beds, two skinny dressers. But she noted the occupants had been allowed to add some touches to bring in a little personality. Posters of music groups, a couple colorful pillows, stuffed animals. Each of the girls had a wall platform by the bed for a minicomp or tablet, a lamp—some girl debris. One of them had switched out the plain white shade on the lamp for one with purple polka dots.

The window still only opened about nine inches. But a small, thin girl could have wiggled through. The climb down . . .

You’d have to be determined, she noted, to risk it with only bits of guttering and a few chancy toeholds in the decorative brick facade.

But she could see it, just as Lonna had described. The dark, the thudding heart, the fingers and toes gripping even as they trembled. Then that final drop, just long enough to make the knees and ankles sing on landing.

“What’s the what?”

Eve straightened from the window, shut it again, turned to Quilla. “What?”

And made the girl grin. “How come you’re in here? Randa and Choo share this room, and they’re chill. My roommate got fostered. She was a pain in the ass with that halo shining in my eyes all the time. I like having my own room, hope I can keep it. So what?”

“Do you actually ever go to class or session or whatever?”

“Sure. It’s all huh and whoa right now ’cause Ms. Jones is twisted, and Mr. Jones is wherever, and Matron’s completely whacked out. They all pretend everything’s just like always, but the vibes, man, they’re f**king bouncing. So what?”

“What is we want to find Mr. Jones.”

“You’re not going to find him in here. He mostly handles the boys’ side, and Ms. Jones handles us. They wouldn’t want to see anybody naked who didn’t have the same parts.”

She threw her arms up in the air, opened eyes and mouth wide. “Scandal!”

Eve figured the girl should give up the idea of being a writer and try acting. “The staff follow that line?”

“Abso-complete. Sometimes some of the older kids sneak in a bang, but it takes mad plans and mega luck. If Ms. Jones found out, she’d dump all kinds of shit work on them, figuring if they’re busy they won’t think about banging. As if. But if anybody from the staff tried anything, she’d rip ’em up like the lion ripped her bro. Fierce.”

“You know about the brother?”

“Everybody does. There’s like this plaque deal in the Quiet Room—you know, in his honor and all.”

“The Quiet Room?”

“They don’t call it a church or a chapel deal, but it is.” She wandered as she talked, poking into the occupants’ things. Since Eve would’ve done exactly the same in her place, she didn’t comment. “No talking, no e-stuff. You’re just supposed to sit and think or meditate or pray. Whatever.”

“No” was all Eve said when Quilla started to slip some sort of hair clip in her pocket.

The girl only shrugged, put it back. “Anyway, Mr. Jones didn’t kill anybody, that’s for solid. He doesn’t even hit or push or even yell. When you screw up you get this.”

She mimed a sternly disapproving look.

“Or this.”

Now one of strained patience that slid into sorrowful disapproval.

“And says stuff like: ‘My dear Quilla, perhaps you need twenty minutes in the Quiet Room to consider your behavior, how it affects you and those around you.’ Ms. Jones is more direct, you know? Screw up, the next thing you know you’re scrubbing toilets. Which is way, way gross. Anyway, he’ll lecture your brains out, and she’ll just hand you a bucket or something. Mostly the bucket’s better. So he didn’t kill anybody, and especially those old dead girls, but something is bogus.”

In a few sentences, the kid had given her a pretty good sense of house and sibling dynamics.

So she’d happily listen to the rest of the flood.

“What’s bogus?”