5. THE KIDNAPPING THAT NEVER WAS: No ghosts or fortunes here, just a damn good game. This story claims that the kidnapping and murders at Ellingham Academy never happened at all. The entire affair—the search, the investigation, the bodies—all of it was part of Albert Ellingham’s greatest game. The student who died, Dottie Epstein, was an actor. The game concluded when he faked his own death in an explosion two years later. In this happy-ending version, all the players were alive and lived together in complete anonymity, leaving fortune and fame behind. Or at least fame. They probably took the fortune.

So which one do you like? The ghosts? The treasure? Or the happy ever after?

5

“I WANT TO JUMP IN THOSE,” JANELLE SAID, HOPPING AHEAD ON THE way to breakfast. “But I don’t want to mess up what they’ve done. It’s so tempting.”

The next morning, Janelle, Stevie, and Nate were heading toward the dining hall. On weekends, the school offered brunch. Stevie had usually slept through this before, but the excitement of being back had woken her early. Even Nate emerged and came downstairs. They were now making their way to the green on an aggressively beautiful fall morning. The sky was a vibrant royal blue, a throbbing blue. Some of the maintenance crew were blowing leaves into gigantic mounds.

Janelle was dressed for the occasion in a burnished orange sweater and jeans and a chunky black scarf, with a spicy autumnal perfume that smelled of bergamot and clove. Stevie was wearing the least wrinkled and most likely to be clean clothes from the trash bag—a black hoodie and some stretched out gray leggings. This was not surprising, as 90 percent of Stevie’s clothes were black or gray or stretched out and her tops were more likely to be hooded than not. She marveled at Janelle, who moved through the patches of sun that came through the leaves, with her perfect style. It wasn’t fancy, but it made every moment feel like an occasion. Many people existed; Janelle lived.

Stevie looked up at the thick canopy of leaves over her head as she wound her way down the paths that snaked toward the Great House. These were the early changing leaves, the prime ones, the burnished golds and the meaty reds. As she reached the green, the view widened. Up here, on the mountain, she had one of the best views of the bright halo of color that overtook the land. The view was hallucinatory, with oceans of gold and orange all around the horizon, marbled with red that looked like rivers of lava coming down from the mountaintops.

She had never been an autumn person; the shortening of the days gave her the jitters, possibly because she had been prone to anxiety attacks at night, and the more night, the more possible anxiety. But it didn’t have to be that way, and she decided she was going to become an autumn person here. Flannel was okay. Apples were fine. Pumpkins were the watermelons of fall. Were these the thoughts autumn people had?

Was this even real? Last night, with Edward King in the living room and the plane ride and the bargain, and now this almost-psychedelic view? Had she lost her mind some time ago?

“This one,” Janelle said, stepping up to one of the massive leaf piles. “I’m going in.”

Nate turned and regarded one of the piles with a scientific air.

“Lot of animal feces in there,” he said.

“Nate,” Janelle said.

“I’m just saying. Leaves are like a big litter box. Lots of animals up here. Foxes. Deer. Raccoons. Moose.”

“No moose,” Stevie said.

“Birds,” Nate went on. “So much bird shit. Bat shit. Lots of bats. Bat shit is very valuable, you know. It’s called guano.”

“I know what guano is,” Janelle said in a warning tone. “But I don’t want to hear about poop. I want crispy leaf fun.”

“Squirrels still have to poop,” Nate continued.

“Squirrels have to poop,” Stevie repeated sagely.

“Why are you ruining my perfect fall morning?” Janelle asked.

“We all have a calling,” Nate said. “This is mine.”

Janelle made a low sound under her breath. Stevie got the feeling her friends were putting on a bit of a show for her—Janelle was extra perky, Nate a bit more dour. They were showing her it was all fine and normal and just like before. Except, as they walked, Stevie was noting little objects on the trees, on light poles, on corners of buildings—discreet little orbs.

The eyes of Edward King.

“There’s a lot of new security,” she said.

“Oh yeah,” Janelle said. “They did that last week.”

“I, for one, hail our new security overlords,” Nate said, loudly, at the nearest orb.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Janelle added. “We’re pretty remote here, and . . . things happened.”

They were coming up on the cupola, where a makeshift memorial to Hayes was sitting in a state of minor decay. What shocked Stevie the most was the sheer quantity of . . . sad. There were flowers, not scattered here or there in single roses, but bunches. Bunches sitting on dried and desiccated bunches, filling the entire floor. There were drawings and notes and pictures. There were small electronic candles, because real candles would have made the whole thing go up in a giant blaze.

“They keep coming,” Janelle said. “I guess they’re slowing a little, but every day the deliveries come and maintenance puts them here.”

The wind stirred some of the now-dying flowers on the memorial.

“This is cheerful,” Nate said. “Can we eat? Let’s be morbid over food.”

The Ellingham dining hall was a large space that looked like a ski chalet. It had a high, peaked ceiling with exposed beams that crossed the space. These were now occupied by a line of jack-o’-lanterns, looking down judgmentally over the assembled. The cafeteria at Stevie’s old school was a festival of linoleum, with hot metal trays full of tacos and tater tots and oversteamed broccoli. The Ellingham dining hall had been given more money to feed fewer people, and it did it with some style. It had automatic sensing dispensers that filled your bottle with still or sparkling water. The menus were written on blackboards in colored chalk. Brunch was a serious affair, with an omelet station (with tofu, if you didn’t eat eggs). There were fresh pancakes and waffles, made with all kinds of berries, or bananas, or chocolate chips. Every breakfast meat was represented, along with their vegetarian counterparts. There was a make-your-own smoothie station, fresh bread, local honey, a whole shelf of teas, different coffee blends with every kind of milk. And, of course, there was maple syrup, the very lifeblood of Vermont. It was this warm syrup smell, along with the wood smoke on the breeze, that said Ellingham to Stevie.

Stevie got a custom waffle with chocolate chips, and a full ramekin of warm syrup. As she turned with her tray, she saw that she had been noticed. Assembled in front of her was all of Ellingham. Or, most of Ellingham. On the left, sitting with a few people from Juno, was Gretchen, Hayes’s ex-girlfriend, the pianist. She had lent Hayes five hundred dollars and finally dumped him when she got tired of his user ways. Stevie had seen Gretchen and Hayes arguing on the day Hayes died. It was Gretchen who told Stevie how Hayes recruited other people to do his work. Gretchen was hard to miss, with her mighty crown of fiery red hair.

Two tables down were Maris and Dash, the other two people who had worked on Hayes’s video. Maris was a singer. She had jet-black hair and tended to dress like she was always about to go perform a set at some smoky little cabaret. Today she wore a snug black sweater and a pair of jeans with high boots. She was fully made up, even though it was still pretty early on a Sunday. Maris always had a smoky eye. Dash was a stage manager who wore large, floppy clothes. He was the one who really ran the video production. They saw Stevie, and Maris waved. This drew more attention, and got Kazim Bazir, the head of the student union, up on his feet and hurrying over.

“Stevie!” he called. “Oh my God! When did you get back? This is amazing!”

“Last night,” Stevie replied, suddenly feeling shy.

It was a nice greeting, even though Stevie and Kaz didn’t really know each other very well. Kaz was always enthusiastic. His special interest was the environment, and he spent a lot of time getting Ellingham to convert over to composting toilets. Kaz cared a lot about composting toilets.

There was someone else watching closely—a small person with large, luminous eyes. She was wearing a brown sweater and peering at Stevie over the top of her tablet.

Germaine Batt.

Technically, Germaine had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t her fault that her story was the thing that made Stevie’s parents pull her out. But the feeling was still there.

David was not in the dining hall.

“How do you feel?” Nate asked as they walked to a table.

“Like the prettiest girl on syrup mountain,” Stevie replied.

They took a table by the window. Janelle’s head was on a swivel. She was watching for Vi, of course. The three of them settled in to have their brunch. Stevie sliced into the crisp chocolate-chip waffle and dipped it into the warm syrup.

Vi Harper-Tomo came bursting into the dining hall. Stevie had never really seen anyone burst into anywhere before, but that’s what they did—sending the door flying back, rushing in with arms flailing. Vi was dressed in their favorite outfit—wide white overalls and a gray sweatshirt, silver-blond hair spiked high.

Vi greeted Stevie much as Janelle had, with an incomprehensible string of affection.