Now, on Halloween morning, she was on the coach again, returning with the first properly completed piece of work she had done at her entire time at Ellingham. It was good to do something right.

Before going to Burlington, Stevie had to assure Janelle that she would be back in time for that night’s Halloween party. Stevie had always been Halloween ambivalent. There were many positive things about Halloween—true-crime shows always got an extra bump, other shows pulled out their murder-mystery episodes, and slinking around in the dark was generally more acceptable. But she could never get on board with the costumes. There was the first problem: being “cute.” That had been the message her whole life. As a child, Halloween was that day Stevie was stuffed into a Disney princess outfit against her will. “You look so cute,” her mom would say, as she safety-pinned the thin polyester Belle dress to the layer of warm clothes she had on underneath. “Don’t you want to be a princess?”

Stevie did not want to be a princess. She was not sure what princesses were, or what they did. She asked to be a different princess, like Princess Leia, but this was rejected. The reason was never given. Stevie pointed to every costume in the store—a ghost, a pirate, a banana. It was no use. It was the Disney princess every time, the same costumes pulled out over and over.

It was an understood thing that Janelle Franklin took Halloween very seriously. She had organized and planned for it with the same precision and attention to detail that she applied to everything in her life. Stevie had watched her construct a Wonder Woman costume piece by piece for a week, sewing, applying, cutting foam, spray painting, and hot-gluing. More than once she had called Stevie in for help, and during these times she had grilled Stevie on what she was going to be. She did not accept Stevie’s answer of someone who stays at home and does not wear a costume.

“Halloween is a chance to be whatever you want to be,” Janelle said as Stevie hot-glued a foam piece in the form of a gold W to a corset that Janelle was wearing. “It doesn’t have to be all sexy, sexy. That’s patriarchal bullshit. I’m Wonder Woman because I love Wonder Woman. Who do you love?”

“The people who work at DNA databases?” Stevie said, checking to make sure the W was secure.

“Okay. How about detectives? What about Sherlock Holmes?”

Stevie rolled her eyes.

“What’s wrong with Sherlock Holmes?” Janelle asked.

“Nothing is wrong with Sherlock Holmes,” Stevie said. “But he’s not a costume. He’s . . .”

Stevie waved her hands in the air to try to convey that you didn’t just dress up like the world’s greatest fictional detective, the one upon whom real-world detection techniques were based, and no, it wasn’t about the hat or the coat. Janelle guided her hand back carefully, because Stevie was still holding a hot-glue gun.

“Name another one,” Janelle said.

“I don’t know . . . Hercule Poirot.”

“Good!” Janelle said. “Fine. Do that.”

Stevie’s costume budget was basically ten dollars, and less if she could manage it. The school permitted students to use the costumes at the theater. There, Stevie had found a suit that—if not entirely up to the exacting standards of Belgium’s neatest detective—was good enough. She would slick back her hair and wear a hat. Vi had a can of dark spray that they would let Stevie use. She had bought the mustache online. She set all these things out on her bed on Saturday morning before getting on the coach to go to her meeting. Tonight, she had to play the part of detective. Now, she had to go to try to be one.

Fenton lived in the middle of Burlington, in the university area. The street she lived on was full of big Victorian houses that were likely once the homes of rich families. They had big wraparound porches that faced toward Lake Champlain. The university had taken over some of the fine brick buildings and made them into university property. The others—the big, rambling ones painted all kinds of colors—had been divided up into apartments for students, who put coolers and rocking chairs and hammocks on the porches and hung banners and tapestries in the windows.

Her house was a tiny sage-green one between a fraternity and a deli. It had a big screened-in front porch. This was filled with piles of newspapers, milk crates, and a lot of recycling. There was a theme in the recycling, Stevie noted. There were a lot of bottles in it. Many wine bottles, two whiskey bottles, a vodka bottle. She remembered Hunter picking up Fenton’s mug and examining it.

This gesture suddenly made a lot more sense.

There was music blasting inside, so Stevie had to knock for almost a full minute on the peeling green door before it opened. Fenton answered, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. Today she wore an old pair of mom jeans and a baggy black sweater.

“Hey,” she said, shooing a big orange cat back inside with her bare foot. “Come in.”

Somehow, Fenton’s house was everything Stevie knew it would be, and yet it still surprised her. The house smelled like cigarette smoke and cat and trash and a single scented candle that was probably supposed to cover all that but only made it worse. They had entered a living room that was mostly composed of books. Books on shelves. Books in stacks along the wall. Books all over a round table in the middle of the room. Books scattered on seats. There was a large television, and a cabinet full of DVDs. There were glasses and mugs everywhere, things in tinfoil that she could not identify. There were also some things that were likely Hunter’s—a coat, some sneakers, some books on the environment. As she scanned the room, she spotted two more cats hiding out in the scenery. The smell hung over it all. Stevie tried not to show it, but she couldn’t help but shield her nose.

“Something wrong?” Fenton said over the music.

“No, it’s . . .”

Fenton turned off the music and the silence was abrupt.

“You like the Rolling Stones?” she asked.

“I . . .”

“Best band in the world. Exile on Main Street. Best album in the world. No arguments. Does something stink? Hunter tells me that all the time. I lost my sense of smell years ago. Open a window if something smells off. Come into my office.”

Fenton put the unlit cigarette behind her ear and waved Stevie through a set of French doors covered in bamboo blinds. This room took things to a new level. The majority of the room was taken up by a massive walnut desk with a shaded green lamp. There was a much-used leather chair in the corner. There were books in here as well, kept in low, orderly stacks. These were interspersed with large cardboard file boxes and metal file cabinets. But it was the walls that really captured her attention. One wall was full of black-and-white photographs of people known to be in the house on the day of the kidnapping. There was a whole section of photos of Vorachek. Then photos of the house and grounds. Then maps, new and old. The one closest to Stevie was made of thin, frail paper but was in very good condition, showing the highways of Vermont in blocky blue ink. Several pushpins were in this map.

“Original road map printed in 1935,” Fenton said.

It was a conspiracy wall. A true, real conspiracy wall. The only things missing were the bits of string that connected the various points.

“So,” Fenton said, “how did we do?”

Stevie pushed over the notepad.

“I have two hundred and ninety out of three hundred and seven,” Stevie said. “A few things were missing. I couldn’t find the one china pattern you wanted.”

Fenton hmmed and flipped through the pad, rolling one of her gray spiral curls around her finger.

“Let me read through this,” she said. “Go and get yourself a Coke or something in the kitchen.”

Fenton waved Stevie off. Stevie went back through the living room, stopping to pet a big ginger cat on one of the sofas. The sofa was thick with cat hair, almost to the point where the color of the sofa was obscured. There were traces of cat litter around the floor, along with ash and specks of paper. Every exposed surface had water rings on it. She had a feeling that the kitchen would not be a pleasant experience, but some effort had been made. There were many dirty glasses, but they were clustered together by the sink. There were some empty wine bottles and a pizza box on the floor by the trash. Nothing good would come of opening the refrigerator. Stevie came from an uptight family, where the slightest smell or stain or smudge in the kitchen was unacceptable, and she just knew that there would be a smell in this fridge from something incorrectly sealed and outdated.

There were, however, some warm Cokes in a box on the floor. Stevie took one, opened it, and wiped the top of the can with her sleeve before sipping. She glanced through the pile of books on the table, and had just opened one about the Yorkshire Ripper when she heard the door open.

“Hey!” called a voice.