He had kept this book in his office, and it was by chance that he noticed the mark on the page. It was quite early in the volume, in A Study in Scarlet. This had been the thing that set his thoughts in motion. Dolores Epstein, that marvelous, brilliant girl, thinking until the end. To have her sharpness, her presence of mind . . .

Finally, he reached for the wire. He would need to listen one more time, just to be absolutely sure. He stood and went across the room, to a collection of cabinets. He opened one, which contained a Webster-Chicago wire recorder. This machine had been outfitted with a pair of listening headphones. He inserted the wire on the reel, then sat down, put the headphones over his ears, and played the recording.

After several minutes, he switched the machine off and removed the headphones. Everything was there, all falling perfectly into place. When he added in what Margo Fields had revealed . . .

It was all very complete. It was time.

He pressed the buzzer on his desk that summoned Robert Mackenzie. Mackenzie appeared within a minute, notebook in hand. He saw Mackenzie note the open curtains.

“I am going to the yacht club,” he said. “The weather is fine and clear. I’ve asked Marsh to come with me. We could both use some time in the air. We’ve been in dark places too long.”

Albert was moved by the look of genuine pleasure that passed over his secretary’s face. Mackenzie cared for him. He was perhaps the last person who did.

“That’s a very good idea,” Mackenzie said. “Would you like me to arrange for a picnic basket for the trip?”

Albert Ellingham shook his head.

“No need, no need. Here. I wrote a riddle this morning. What do you think?”

He surprised himself with this action. The riddle was a private one, but he shared all his riddles with Mackenzie. This one, perhaps most of all, deserved his consideration. Mackenzie snatched it up, obviously happy that he was returning to his old ways.

“Where do you look for someone who’s never really there?” Mackenzie read. “Always on a staircase, but never on a stair.”

Albert watched Mackenzie very closely. Would he know the answer? Was it visible to all?

“It may be the best riddle I’ve ever written,” he said. “It’s my Riddle of the Sphinx. Those who solve it pass. Those who don’t . . .”

He reached over and took the slip of paper back, setting it neatly on the middle of his desk. Mackenzie was turning the riddle over in his mind, but Albert could see that his attention was not on it. Mackenzie was studying his demeanor for clues. Mackenzie himself was looking much older than his thirty years. He needed to get out in the world and live.

“I have something very important for you to do today, Robert,” he said, putting a paperweight over the riddle for protection. “Get out in the air. Enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”

“I’m going to,” Mackenzie said. “I have about ten pounds’ worth of correspondence to get through first.”

“I mean it, Robert.” And he did mean it. Suddenly, telling Robert Mackenzie to care for himself was the most important thing in the world. “The winter will be here soon and you’ll wish you took more advantage of days like this.”

Mackenzie shuffled awkwardly.

“You’re a good man, Robert,” he went on. “I wish you had the happiness in your life that I’ve had in mine. Remember to play. Remember the game. Always remember the game.”

This was all sounding a bit much, so Albert Ellingham put on the broadest smile he could muster.

“I promise I will go outside,” Mackenzie said, in a way that indicated the exact opposite.

“There is one other thing,” Albert said. “All the paperwork for the codicil and the trust is in my desk. Make sure that you get everything ready for the printer. I want to start running the ads tomorrow.”

“You’re really going through with it?” Mackenzie said. “And there’s nothing that I can say to stop you?”

“Nothing. Big, bold type, above the fold. ‘Ellingham offers ten million for daughter.’ I want people in passing airplanes to be able to read the headline.”

“This is a mistake.”

“That is mine to make. When you have ten million dollars, you can do with it what you wish.”

This was a bit harsh, but the point had to be made. It was time to go. No more moving commentary about the nature of the day. Now that the moment was upon him, he felt the edge of hesitation. Perhaps he should explain. Robert Mackenzie could be trusted.

“It was on the wire,” he added as Mackenzie reached the door.

“What?” Mackenzie turned.

No. Robert could not know.

“Nothing. Nothing. As you were.”

Mackenzie returned to his office.

Everything was now in place. The other preparations were already made. The materials were in the trunk of the car. The mechanism was an easy matter that he had constructed by the fire the evening before. Albert Ellingham looked around his office once more, to see if there was anything he had forgotten. He reached down and opened the lowest desk drawer. This drawer contained only a few small personal items—a bottle of aspirin, a spare pair of glasses, a deck of cards. He reached back farther and pulled out a revolver. He held it for a moment, heavy in his palm, considered it fully.

The green marble clock ticked away. When had the murdered princess last looked at it? Did she know it was the last time? The cool glass eye had watched as she had been taken from her house. It had been spared the sight of her death, her head put on a spike and paraded through the streets of Paris. The head had even been displayed at her friend the queen’s prison window, a ghastly puppet. A sign of what was to come.

It was just a clock. It did not know or understand. But it did know the time, and it was telling Albert Ellingham that it had come. Choose.

No. It was best to do it without the gun. The plan was well-balanced. He returned it to the drawer and got up for his coat before he could second-guess himself.

It was time to play the game.

20

THE SCHOOL, HAVING JUST RELEASED LARRY FROM DUTY, WAS NOT inclined to let him drive Stevie to Burlington. However, in accordance with the “we will do anything to make you feel better” initiative, there was no objection to her going to Burlington to work with Dr. Fenton. She was given a ride with a security officer named Jerry who was going off duty in a half hour. Someone else would come pick her up. Jerry drove Stevie to Burlington in his old Acura and didn’t care that she was listening to her earbuds the entire time. She needed to play some music. Things were thrumming in her head and she needed them all to get into the same rhythm.

They pulled up at Fenton’s door, and Stevie sprang out, gave a quick thanks, and hurried down the cracked concrete path. She had not texted Hunter, because what she was about to do required an element of surprise and a bit of recon. First, she listened. The house was quiet. There were no lights on downstairs. She had checked Fenton’s schedule, so Stevie knew she had a class to teach in forty-five minutes. She paced awhile, keeping out of sight and away from the direction that Fenton would walk. She waited almost forty minutes, before Fenton blew out of her door and started furiously clog-walking in the direction of her classroom building.

She texted Hunter now:

Are you home?

After a moment, came the reply. Yeah why.

Come downstairs and outside.

Stevie waited on the screened porch, with the piles of garbage and recycling waiting in bins. After a moment, the inner door opened and Hunter poked his head out.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure?” he said, opening the door.

The house had a bad odor that day. Clearly Fenton had made no jokes about not having a sense of smell. Even the cats seemed to have abandoned ship.

“I need you to help me,” Stevie said.

“With what?”

Stevie could have lied. She had lied before. But the lies had all backfired. Sneaking into Fenton’s house was not like sneaking into someone’s room, either. In the real world they called that breaking and entering. This required transparency, and a bit of luck.

“I need to go into her office. I need to look at the manuscript.”

Hunter’s face sagged.

“I can’t . . .”

“I’m not stealing anything,” she said. “I just need to see her notes about what Mackenzie said.”

“I told you . . .”

“Look,” Stevie said, moving around the room to find a spot that didn’t smell quite as bad. “I may not have forever to do this. I need to show you something.”

She found a somewhat clear space on one of the tables and set her bag down. She unzipped it, reached in, and produced the tin.

“This,” she said, “contains proof that the Truly Devious letter was written by two students on campus. It was a joke, a prank. Or something.”

“Shut up,” he said.

She pulled open the tin and produced the photos.

“These two,” she said, holding up a photo, “were two rich students. The guy was a poet. The girl was really into true-crime magazines. They were cosplaying Bonnie and Clyde. Here’s a poem they wrote.”