The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious, #2)(22)

“A shepherdess,” Stevie said.

Charles blinked behind his Warby Parkers.

“Iris collected antique French porcelain,” Stevie said.

“Of course you would know about that,” he said. “Anyway, it seemed so sad to have something so beautiful in a room no one really goes in. It should be looked at. But, let’s keep to the subject at hand. Do you know this book?”

He pulled a copy of Truly Devious: The Ellingham Murders by Dr. Irene Fenton from a stack of books on his desk. Stevie had worn this book through. It was the first read many people did on the subject.

Stevie nodded.

“I assumed so. I got a call from the author. Dr. Fenton teaches at the University of Vermont, in Burlington. She’s working on an updated version and she’s looking for a research assistant. We’ve placed several students at the university as research assistants. In your case, I don’t think we’ve ever had such a good fit for a project. How would you feel about doing that?”

Stevie tried not to actually bounce in the seat, but this was unsuccessful. Her spine became a spring, and she bolted up. Life had handed her a gift, a beautiful, unexpected gift.

“What would I have to do?” she asked.

“Organize research, check facts.” Charles said it all casually, as if this wasn’t the greatest thing in the world. “I can give you some credit for English and history for the work, as well as credit toward your individual project. And because of all the work you’ve done on this subject already, I can advance you a little time and credit to make up for anything you’ve lost.”

She was already nodding.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You never have to thank me for work you’ve done yourself. And I figured you would say yes, so I’ve set up your first meeting for tomorrow. Take the Burlington coach in the morning. She’ll meet you at the Skinny Pancake at noon. It’s a coffee and crepe place on the waterfront. You’ll like it. Very popular. Sound all right?”

It sounded better than all right.

“Now . . .” He opened his laptop. “Let’s get you updated on all your units for your classes as well. I don’t know if you happened to continue any work on your reading or your language learning modules . . .”

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

A half hour later, with a new schedule and an alarming set of “personal academic benchmarks” to meet, Stevie was released back into the wild, feeling a confusing blend of joy and terror, which was often a ticket to a ride on the anxiety roller coaster. There were people around, and she could have spoken to any of them. She could find Janelle and Nate and Vi. They would be happy to talk to her.

Stevie was not going to do any of those things. She often found that when everything felt a little too much, she could not talk to anyone, even if she actually wanted to. She had a tendency to go where other people were not, to step into shadows when people walked toward her. She had a fondness for headphones and screens and ducking away, even as part of her wanted to be with friends. Which meant she was going to the library to find some people who were probably dead. Namely, she was going to find Frankie and Edward, and Frankie and Edward were most likely to be found in the materials she had been hoping to get from Kyoko Obi, the school librarian.

The library, called Asteria, was one of the campus’s most magnificent buildings. Albert Ellingham thought libraries were holy spaces of learning, so he designed it to look like a small Gothic church, with a turret. On the inside, it had a wild quality—because of some architectural peculiarity, when you opened the door, it sent in a channel of air that swirled up through the open space, up and up around the balconies with their intricate spun-steel metalwork that was like petrified lace. Colored light poured in from the stained-glass windows that portrayed Greek titans: Helios, Selene, Metis, Eos, Leto, Pallas, and Perseus.

Kyoko sat at a stool at a monumental desk, looking like a judge on high. Except, in this case, the judge wore a fleece and still had the marks from a bike helmet in her hair. Kyoko also ran the school’s biking club and actually went up and down the entrance path on her bike every day, a feat that should easily have qualified her for the Olympics. The library was sparsely populated—a few people sat at the massive working tables, and they all had headphones on, so it seemed okay to speak.

“You don’t waste time,” Kyoko said, greeting her. “I only just got the message that you were back.”

Stevie meant to smile and nod, but she ended up enacting the shrug emoticon.

“I need some research material,” Stevie said. “On here, on the school. I need to see anything about the first class. Lists of students for sure. Do you have those?”

Kyoko nodded and took a swig from her Ellingham water bottle. She put a little sign out that said: THE LIBRARIAN WILL BE BACK and waved Stevie through the dark wooden door with the words Library Office written in gold.

The front part of the Ellingham library was a grand place, with its iron and glass and dark, carved wood, and the glorious selection of books. Many of the books had been around since the school opened in 1935—fine, handpicked volumes, many bound in leather, silent witnesses to the events that unfolded there. But it was the back office of the library that got Stevie excited. The back office contained the large metal shelving units of document boxes.

If you loved crime, a document box was a beautiful thing. Anything could be in it. Files. Clues. Evidence. The document box was the thing to pick through, to find the lead, to find the single sentence on the single piece of paper that made you stand so suddenly that your head spun and then you’d know that you cracked the case.