The Hand on the Wall(32)

George blinked once, very slowly, then turned back to the dollhouse for a moment.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“There’s no doubt,” Flora replied. “One morning I woke up, and I threw up right into the wastepaper basket. I hadn’t been out the night before. I went to the doctor, and he confirmed it. I told Iris. She had always wanted a child, but she hadn’t been able to have one of her own. It was the perfect solution, for everyone. The child would want for nothing. So we all went to Switzerland together. There are clinics there—private ones—where everyone knows how to keep a secret. It wasn’t that there was any issue with Alice being adopted. They just wanted privacy. They didn’t want the whole world telling her. It was all so perfect.”

The tiny chandeliers twinkled as a stray beam of sunset struck its crystal droplets. George sank his hands into his pockets and looked at the house, not moving or speaking for some time.

“I would have married you,” he finally said. “That’s what you do.”

At this, Flora laughed—a strange barking sound.

“Did it ever occur to you that I wouldn’t want to marry you?” she said. “We had fun, George, but you were never seriously interested. Neither was I.”

“I have a daughter,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “I have a daughter. And I made sure she was safe. Or I tried to.”

She wound her arms around herself and rubbed at her sides. She felt cold and confused. She had never meant to have this conversation. Now that she had spilled the knowledge, she had nothing more to add. She walked out of the room, her heels clicking hard against the wooden floor.

George stood alone, staring at the dollhouse. He reached inside, like a giant, and removed the tiny porcelain Alice. Even in this form, he could see the resemblance. She had his eyes.

He had let his own child be kidnapped.

She was missing, somewhere out there in the world, with the men he had hired. The men who had killed her mother.

George Marsh had always wanted to find Alice, but in that moment, that task became the sole focus of his life.





10


THERE HAD BEEN SEVERAL OCCASIONS IN THIS MATTER WHEN ONE OF the King family—either Edward or David—decided to turn up suddenly in Stevie’s life. Each time, she felt like metal clamps came out of the floor and wrapped around her feet, locking her in place.

“Who are you?” David said. “We met, right? Are you the new me?”

This was to Hunter, who was staring at the person he had last seen getting his face bashed in on the street in Burlington. The bruises around his left eye were still dark and angry, some green, some blue-black. The cut that ran from his temple to his cheek looked like it had needed stitches but had not gotten them, and it gaped a bit where the new flesh was knitting itself together. But his wide smile was the same, and the bruising brought out the deep color of his eyes.

“Yeah, I have no idea what’s happening,” Hunter replied.

“What are you doing here?” Janelle asked. “I thought you left.”

“I came in through the bathroom window,” he said, as if this was obvious.

“Oh, the last thing we need today is your bullshit.”

“Normally, I would agree. But today I have something that’s really important, and we need to talk fast, and not here. Upstairs.”

“The school is closing,” Janelle said.

“I know. That’s why I came. Seriously. Can we go upstairs, right now? You can yell at me or whatever, but I have something really, really important to talk to you about.”

“We need to—”

“I’m not sure if Stevie told you this, but Edward King is my dad.”

This was a surprise to Vi, and certainly to Hunter, who was having a strange introduction to life at Minerva.

“Shut up,” Vi said.

“I’m serious. Look at my face.” David ran his finger along his noninjured jawline. “See it? See the resemblance?”

“Oh my God,” Vi replied.

“Yeah. My reaction too. Do you want to stop a bad man from becoming president? If you want to know more, follow me. If not, pack your shower gel.”

This resulted in silence from the group.

“I have your attention?” David said. “Good. Upstairs.”

He got up, slinging the massive backpack over his shoulder. It made a loud clunking noise. He went off down the hall, leaving everyone else.

“What is he talking about?” Janelle asked Stevie.

“I have no idea,” Stevie replied. “But I think we should find out.”

Maybe it was the nervous energy of having been told the school had closed, but there was a kind of group movement—a magnetic pull to stay together. They went one by one up the curved, creaking stairs, Janelle looking after Vi, Stevie still thrumming at the sight of David, Nate because . . . well, because the tide pulled him. Upstairs, in the dark hallway, David unlocked his door. Everyone followed him inside. Stevie had been in David’s room before. It was stark, full of expensive but impersonal things. Gray sheets and bedding. Nice speakers that he didn’t use. Some gaming systems. She had been on that bed, up against the wall. They had . . .

She couldn’t think about that.

“No one knows I’m here,” he said, sitting on the floor.