The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious, #2)(54)
“This went better than I hoped,” he said. “I thought . . .”
“Shut up,” she said, kissing him again.
He reached around, gripping her and lifting her a few inches off the ground. Had there been enough room, she would have put her legs around him. But the tunnel walls did not stretch to accommodate her desires.
“There’s something,” he mumbled against her lips.
“What?” she mumbled back.
“Light. Nate has to be signaling.”
He set her down gently. She wished she could see his expression now, but they were blind to each other. He held her face in his hands for a long moment, saying nothing—not kissing, not moving, not seeing.
“Nate,” he said again, after a long pause.
“Nate,” she replied.
“Your turn to lead.”
She fumbled around, her hands shaking and her legs wobbly, trying to find the flashlight. Then she turned awkwardly. She was very glad that David had taken the lead on the way in, because she had only seen his back. Had she had a good look at the long, tight way forward, she would never have gone on, and what had just happened would never have happened.
They walked back, David at her heels, his hand playing with the tips of her hair, teasingly poking at her ribs, tickling the back of her neck. The world was perfect and hilarious all of a sudden, even if they were busted down here. It would all be all right. Her life had been building to this—this tunnel, this moment. She was warm and giddy. She was a new Stevie.
Her light caught something on the ground. At first glance, it was simply more black in a world of blackness, but this was a different, deeper black against the gray, and it had a bit of shine. She bent down and reached for the thing and David took the opportunity to reach around her waist and hug her.
“What is it?” David said. “Treasure?”
She held it under the flashlight beam. It was plastic. A bit of bag, shiny and black.
“Just a piece of bag,” she said.
There were no plastic bags in the thirties, probably. Probably? Stevie rubbed the fragment between her fingers. There was something, something that clicked in the back of her mind. Her brain was always doing that—clicking and not talking to her about the clicking.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Stevie said absently. The bit of plastic slid coolly between her fingertips. “It’s nothing.”
The internal clicking got louder. There was a Geiger counter in her brain. Then she saw it. It had been hard to see the way they came in, because it was on an angle—another opening, about two and a half feet wide.
“There’s another tunnel,” she said. She shone her light down into the space.
“I’m ashamed of myself for saying this,” David said, “but we should get back up before Pix comes home or Nate seals us in.”
Stevie took just a few steps into the new branch of tunnel. On the ground in front of her was another piece of plastic. She picked it up. It was the same shiny black plastic. Garbage bag plastic, that’s what it was.
Click. Click. Click. Her mind was going faster now, showing her picture after picture. Garbage bags in the kitchen at home. Her clothes in garbage bags when she came back to Ellingham. Garbage clothes. Ellie wearing a skirt made of garbage bags at the silent party . . .
Up ahead, there was some trash on the ground. That’s what it looked like anyway from a distance. There was a subtle sheen from more garbage bag plastic, then something formless, purple . . .
She didn’t have to go any farther to know what she had found.
INTERVIEW WITH MARION NELSON
CONDUCTED IN NEW YORK CITY BY AGENT HENRY EVANS, NYC OFFICE, AND AGENT GEORGE MARSH, VERMONT FIELD OFFICE
APRIL 20, 1936
HE: Thank you for coming in to speak to us, Miss Nelson.
MN: It’s no trouble at all. None at all.
HE: You understand what has transpired? I don’t need to explain anything to you.
MN: Yes. I know. I know about it.
HE: You are the housemistress of Minerva House at Ellingham Academy, is that correct?
MN: Correct.
HE: How did you get your position?
MN: I knew Mr. Ellingham from here, from New York. I worked as a secretary at his newspaper.
HE: Directly for him?
MN: No, for the editor in chief, Max Campbell. But I got to know Mr. Ellingham from his visits to the office. He was very involved in the day-to-day.
HE: You became friends.
MN: Yes.
HE: Good friends?
MN: I . . . yes. Good friends.
AGENT MARSH: We first met when you worked at the paper.
MN: Yes, when you saved Mr. Ellingham from that bomb.
HE: And he asked you to come and be a housemistress at his new school.
MN: Yes. He wanted people at the school he knew and trusted.
GM: You’re the only person from the newspaper to come and work at the academy, Miss Nelson. Just you.
MN: Yes.
GM: Why do you think you were the only one he brought from the newspaper?
MN: I suppose . . . I was the only one with the right skills. I’m not a reporter. I was a secretary.
HE: Did you have any other position at the school? Did you teach?
MN: Biology.
HE: So you taught biology and lived at Minerva House.
MN: Yes.
HE: Miss Nelson, we’ve been going through the files on all the faculty at Ellingham Academy. None of the other faculty members had a direct connection to Albert Ellingham’s business life. Not just the newspaper. All the businesses.