“The same. My parents are still my parents. School is still school. I didn’t realize how much the place stinks like cafeteria and hot dishwater before. Ellingham is all . . . woody.”

When she called up the sense memory, Stevie felt a pain run through her. Like a punch in the gut.

“So how’s everyone else?” she said quickly.

“Uh . . . Janelle is all in love and power tools. And David, I guess . . .”

And David, he guessed. Nate paused long enough for Stevie to know that there was a there there. Only Janelle knew most of the facts—that Stevie and David Eastman were some kind of thing. David was an annoying rich boy, scruffy and difficult. Whatever ability he had—and apparently he had considerable ability in computer programming—he hid from the school and others. His likes were video games, not going to class, not talking about his past . . .

And Stevie.

Janelle knew that David and Stevie had made out several times. Nate likely guessed; he did not want to know details, but it would have been evident. There was something neither Janelle nor Nate knew about David. Something Stevie was holding on to. Something that could not be said.

“David what?” Stevie said, trying not to sound too interested.

“Nothing. I should go, I guess. . . .”

Stevie suspected that Nate wasn’t going because he was going to write; he was going because this was probably the longest phone conversation he had ever had, at least voluntarily.

“My parents have a sign hanging in the bathroom that I think sums it up,” Stevie said. “It says: ‘Believe in yourself.’ Have you considered believing in yourself? I can send you that quote on top of a pic of a sunset. Would that help?”

“Good-bye,” he said. “You’re the worst.”

Stevie smiled and pocketed her phone. It always hurt, but now it hurt a tiny bit less. She picked up her chin and took firm, decisive steps. She’d read somewhere that the way you move could influence your inner state—take on the shape of the thing you wanted to be. FBI agents walked decisively. Detectives kept their heads up, their eyes moving around. She fastened her hands on her backpack straps to pull herself to a straighter stance. She would not be broken. She quickened her steps and almost bounded up the crumbling concrete path to her front door, turning away, as she always did, from the weathered KING FOR SENATE sign that was still on their lawn a year after the election was over.

“Hey,” she said, knocking the headphones down to her neck and pulling off her coat. “I decided to walk. . . .”

It seemed they had a visitor.

2

SOMETIMES THE DEVIL COMES TO PEOPLE IN STORIES—THE UNEXPECTED visitor with the pleasing voice. The devil is not supposed to show up in life. The devil is not supposed to be in living rooms in Pittsburgh in the autumn twilight, sitting on the green sofa from Martin’s Big Discount Furniture, in a room magnetically pointed at the television. And yet, there he was.

Edward King was in his fifties, but still looked a bit younger. His hair was dark with a waving curl, forced flat. He wore an impeccable gray suit, one of those suits that stand out because they do not shine or bag. His unlined face was a mask of affability, his smile a gentle, who me? twist. He sat back deep into the sofa, his legs widely crossed, as if this was where he spent every evening. Stevie’s parents sat in the matching recliners on either side of the sofa, looking attentive and wide-eyed, and frankly, confused.

“Hello, Stevie,” he said.

Stevie was stranded in the doorway, feeling a cold paralysis come over her limbs.

Edward King was the worst man in America.

Well, that point could be argued. But Edward King was a powerful man. He was a Pennsylvania senator, based here, out of Pittsburgh. This was the man who wanted to keep “outsiders” and “bad elements” out of America, which largely meant people who weren’t white, weren’t rich. For Edward King, wealth was goodness. There was no climate change in his world—the earth was there to produce more life-affirming dollars. This was a man who wanted to be president.

“Stevie,” her father said, a slight warning tone in his voice. She knew what that tone meant. We know how you feel about this, but this man is a senator and our personal hero, and if you think you are about to storm out or go into some political tirade, you are much mistaken.

Stevie felt that old tyrant in her chest, the unsteady heartbeat that signaled the start of an anxiety attack. She grabbed the doorframe like it was a life preserver. Her parents didn’t know that this was not the first time Stevie had come this close to Edward King.

“It’s okay,” he said. He was too clever to smile broadly; it was just a gentle hint of a smile. “I know that Stevie may not be my biggest fan. We can have different opinions. That’s what makes America great. Honoring our differences.”

Oh no. No, no, no. He’d lobbed the ball at her. He wanted to play.

Oh, she would play.

If she could breathe. Breathe, Stevie. Breathe. One intake of air and she could get the whole apparatus moving. But it was a no-go from her diaphragm.

“Stevie,” her father said again, though the tone was less stern. “Come sit down.”

The floor was coming up to meet Stevie a bit. Hello, said the floor. Come see me. Plant your face in my bosom and be still.

“That’s all right,” Edward King said. “Stevie, you do whatever makes you comfortable. I’m just here to talk to you all, see how you’re doing after the events at Ellingham.”

Another move in this chess game. Now that he was saying she could stand, maybe the move was to sit. Or she might be giving in to what he wanted. Too much input. The golden twilight was dimming fast and the shadows were falling across the carpet. Or was that just her vision? The floor really was inviting. . . .

STEVIE! she screamed to herself. YOU. MUST. REINHABIT. YOUR. BODY.

“I want to congratulate you on the remarkable work you did at Ellingham,” Edward King went on. “Your investigative powers are really exceptional.”

Her parents looked at her as if they were expecting her to dance or maybe pull out some puppets. Still, her body and voice refused to participate.

Okay, she said to herself. Points for not being on the floor. But you’ve got to move. You can move. You can speak. DO SOMETHING.

“We’re sorry,” her mother said.

“Don’t be.” Edward King spread out his hands in a generous gesture, as if this was his house. “Actually, Stevie, and you may not like to hear this, you remind me of a young me a bit. I stood by my principles. Even if others around me didn’t always like it. You’ve got backbone. So what I’ve come to ask, come to talk about, is this . . . and I ask you all to hear me out. I’ve come to ask that Stevie return to Ellingham.”

The floor could have completely fallen away and revealed a cloud city below.

“I’m . . . sorry?” Her mother was now off her footing.

“I know, I know,” Edward King said apologetically. “I’m a parent of a student there as well. Please. Let me make my case. I have something to show you.”

He reached into a sleek leather case leaning against his leg and pulled out several glossy folders.

“Have a look at these,” he said, passing one to each of her parents. He held one toward Stevie as well, but immediately set it on his lap when it was clear that she would not make a move for it.

“Security?” her father said, examining the folder.

“The best firm in the country. Better than the secret service, because it’s private. It’s the firm I use. And it’s the firm I’ve hired to wire Ellingham. I always thought there should be a better security system there, and after recent events, I managed to convince the board to allow me to install a network.”

Her parents were looking through the folders, dumbfounded.

“I did this,” he continued, “because Ellingham Academy is a very special place. They cultivate individual talent. What they’ve done for people like Stevie and my son . . . I truly believe in the mission. Albert Ellingham was a great man, a true American innovator. And new American innovators are being made at Ellingham right now. I’m asking you, please. I think Stevie should return. The campus is safer now.”

“But that girl,” her mother said. “Everything that’s happened . . .”

“Element,” Edward King said, shaking his head. “Do you want to know what I think?”

Her parents always did, and for the first time, so did Stevie.

“I believe what happened was an accident. I think those two students were out of their depth and Hayes died. I think your daughter worked it out. And I think the girl panicked and ran. She’ll be found.”

“The school should have been more careful,” Stevie’s father said.