The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious, #2)(60)

“About your dad?” Stevie asked.

“We were a little drunk. I told her. I didn’t think she’d judge me for it. I remember we were sitting in the attic of the art barn. She was making a collage and she had a bottle of some German stuff that tasted like cough syrup and ass. When I told her . . . she laughed. She said it didn’t matter. She could have told people. I know she never did.”

David’s voice was thickening. Stevie stared at the floor, the original tiles, with their scars and dings of decades of students scouring the aisles. There was a storm brewing, something that felt like falling and spinning. She wanted squirrels to come flooding toward them. She was about to ask David how he had managed to get all those squirrels, when he began to sob.

She had absolutely no idea what to do.

Well, she did. The thing to do was to put an arm around him. Kissing him had been easy. This was pure and intimate and happening not in the dark of the tunnel, but here in the dim light, in full view of the books.

She began to sweat. She felt the swirl in her brain, the speed of life. Her promise to Edward King mocked her now. Befriend him. Take care of him. Make him stay. Make a mockery of every feeling she had about him to get what she wanted and needed so badly. She could no longer figure out if she had done those things with David because she wanted to or because it was all part of the deal, the miserable, evil deal. Edward King had made her into a liar. He had turned her into someone like him and everything that had happened tonight was tainted. If she touched David now, she would be complicit.

But she couldn’t leave him like this either. So she took his hand and squeezed it. She tried to make the squeeze speak for everything inside her, everything she couldn’t say. He squeezed back, then he fell against her in heaving sobs.

Stevie bolted herself to the wall, unable to move. This outpouring of emotion was making her panic. After a few minutes, he leaned back, wiped his eyes, and caught his breath.

“Fuck,” he said. “I’m tired of sitting up here. Let’s go to the yurt of sadness.”

He was entirely unembarrassed by what had happened. Not that he should have been. It’s just that Stevie would have been. David was free with the way he expressed himself. He stood and offered his hand to help her up, then continued holding it. They were simply together now.

Out at the end of the aisle, along the balcony, the counselor was consulting with Call Me Charles, who had been called to the scene. He had stripped the Charlie Chaplin mustache and hat and was wrapped in his normal black coat, but the strange pants and shoes were still visible underneath. Halloween was a weird night.

“How are you both doing?” he said as they emerged. She saw him take note of their clasped hands.

“About how you’d expect,” David said.

Charles nodded solemnly.

“Can we go to the yurt now?” David said. “Do they need me for anything else?”

“I think they’re done for now,” Charles said. “There may be some more questions later, but for now, you should be with your friends and get some rest. I’ll get someone to walk you over.”

“Can we skip that?” David said. “Can we just go? It’s not like you won’t know where we are.”

“I think that will be fine,” Charles said. “The two of you can go together.”

David started to go, Stevie trailing along, linked to him.

“Don’t worry, Stevie,” Charles said quietly as they left. “Everything will be all right. We’ll speak to your parents.”

David turned at this, taking note, and then the two of them went down the iron staircase and out into the cold night.

The stars were bright overhead. On nights with no clouds, the star fields over Ellingham were like nothing Stevie had ever seen—so many of them, so many more than she knew. There was a half moon, low and buttery yellow, casting a bit of light over the lawn and the Great House.

They were approaching one of the pathway lights, where a security camera perched above them. He stopped and stared at the camera.

“The school seems to be very understanding,” David said after a moment.

“About what?”

“About your parents,” he replied. “Making sure they don’t get freaked out. It must be hard to keep everyone calm when your students keep dying.”

“I guess,” she said.

“You must have given your parents a really good speech to convince them to let you come back,” he said. “What did you say to them?”

There was thunder in her ears.

“I . . . I don’t know what motivates my parents.”

It was a nonanswer, and it did not work on David the way it had on Nate.

“I was on the roof when you got back,” he said. “I saw you come home. It was late. I mean, I was pretty high at the time, but I know it was late on a Friday night.”

It wasn’t a question, and that was terrifying.

“You guys must have been driving for a long time,” he said.

“I flew,” she said.

“Oh. Sweet. Didn’t you drive up the first time?”

She had to open her mouth and answer, because every passing second told the tale for her. But how? Because the truth now was a confession, not a gift.

The blue eye of the camera observed them coolly.

“The plane is nice,” he said. “Did he try to get you to eat the chips?”