Neverworld Wake(59)

“I don’t get it,” whispered Martha, frowning at an email she’d just opened.

“What?”

“?‘S.O. wants to change his dormitory, FYI.’?” She glanced at me. “This is from Janet. ‘He needs you to call the Princeton dean and make it happen, as this isn’t freshman policy.’ Bizarre.”

“What’s bizarre?” I asked.

“Another email from Princeton. Who in the Mason family goes to Princeton?”

It was a good question. Jim was the oldest. His other siblings were in grade school.

“Who is S.O.?” I wondered.

We did a search of the initials. One more email appeared. As I opened it, the wall of broken glass in front of us spontaneously fell away, millions of shards sliding across the roof and down the side of the house. A powerful gust of wind billowed through the room, sending the gauzy curtains flying out and stacks of papers swirling off Mr. Mason’s desk.

“We don’t have much time,” I said hastily. “The system is about to lock us out.”

Martha nodded, biting her lip, and peered closer at the email.

S.O. wants lunch tomorrow to discuss a business opportunity. Booked 1 p.m. Jean-Georges.

“Try searching the keyword Princeton,” Martha said.

I did, and one more email appeared.

Chris Endleberg of Princeton wants to thank you personally for your donation. Invited you to dinner 2/24. I declined, as you’ll be in Buenos Aires.

“S.O. could be a cousin,” I suggested. “Maybe Edgar pays for his education?”

“Or S.O. is his Emotional Support Animal, wearing a yellow vest, which he takes with him on planes, trains, and automobiles.”

This appeared to be her attempt at humor, though you could never tell with Martha.

“Or S.O. is his imaginary childhood friend,” I said.

“Or S.O. is his sixth personality, as he has secretly suffered from schizophrenia for years.”

We smiled at each other, though unsurprisingly, the moment ended as soon as we realized what was happening: we weren’t on edge in each other’s company.

That was when another three walls of glass dropped away and a strong gale barreled through again, papers exploding around the room.

At that moment, Whitley stuck her head around the doorframe.

“The wake is three minutes away—” She frowned. “What the— What’s happening in here?”

Martha leapt to her feet. “It’s the Neverworld. We have to go. Now.”

They hurriedly explained their plan. We needed to head back to Wincroft to find Cannon. The Masons were impossible to break. It was better for the five of us to get back together than to keep interrogating them. Our questions were eliciting no new information about Jim.

“Use the cliff for the wake,” Martha ordered cryptically before ducking out.

I remained where I was, searching Edgar’s laptop as the wind howled around me, and papers cycloned, every glass wall falling away. Not a minute later, the desktop speakers sounded an alarm, and I was locked out, the screen going black. I leapt to my feet, and as I hurried past the open spaces overlooking the backyard, I spotted Martha, Kipling, and Whitley running out of the house and past the pool toward the cliff.

Use the cliff for the wake.

I watched, stunned, as they stood side by side at the very edge.

They joined hands. Then they jumped.



* * *



—

When I returned downstairs, the Masons looked terrified.

They’d seen what I’d just seen. They believed now that we were all crazy.

I questioned them for another hour. Mr. Mason’s cell rang incessantly. So did the landline. A printer wailed in a room upstairs. It was doubtlessly Torchlight Security trying to alert Mr. Mason of the security breach. Holding the gun on him, I said I wanted to know what he and Jim had argued about in his final days alive.

“What are you talking about?” he wailed. “My son and I didn’t argue. We never argued.”

“Who is S.O.?”

“S.O.?” He looked confused.

“The freshman at Princeton.”

He sneered. “It’s a colleague’s son. What does he have to do with— You truly are a troubled young woman, my dear. If you have any sense, you’ll untie us all, go back to your dingbat life, and hope—no, pray—my fleet of attorneys doesn’t decide to spread you on a cracker and serve you as an hors d’oeuvre.”

I tried setting a few more verbal traps for Mr. Mason to fall into, telling him Jim had confessed to me all about his financial fraud. I tried to see whether he looked uneasy or afraid. Unsurprisingly, my blind fishing elicited little more than confounded stares and indignant comments from the family that they’d always thought I was a good girl, which made my involvement in this nightmare all the more disappointing.

“There’s no need to pretend,” I said. “You never liked me. And my name, in case you were wondering, is not Jessica, or Antonella, or Barbara, or Blair. It’s Beatrice Hartley.”

I shot the gun into the ceiling. Instantly, minute cracks fanned out through the plaster, spreading into every corner, then moving down the walls.

“We’ll give you any amount of money,” whimpered Mrs. Mason, worriedly eyeing the ceiling.