“Or something,” Hayes said with a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Zombie business is big business,” David said. “People love the undead.”

“That’s my life,” Stevie said. “I work at the Monroeville Mall.”

No reply from Hayes.

“In Pittsburgh,” Stevie said. “The Monroeville Mall.”

Hayes cocked his head and smiled at Stevie, but it was a smile of I have no idea what you are saying. There was a definite echo of how her parents sometimes looked at her, and it made her cheeks burn.

Nate looked up from the milky depths of his cereal bowl, first to Hayes, then to Stevie.

“What made you want to write about zombies?” Janelle asked in what seemed to be an attempt to keep some normal conversation going.

Ellie stumbled into the room wearing a pair of ratty harem pants and a shirt that said ART HARDER. As a greeting, she sat down and casually put her bare foot on the table and examined it for a moment.

“I don’t know,” Hayes replied. “I went home to Florida last year, surfed for a few days, and it just came to me. Sometimes, when you get away, get a chance to think, that’s when you have an idea.”

“You never know where you’re going to get ideas,” Ellie said. “In Paris, we’d all sit around, have some wine, let it come naturally.”

“I’m kind of talking to P. G. Edderton about a movie,” Hayes said.

“P. G. Edderton?” Nate said. “Silver Moonlite Motel P. G. Edderton?”

“We’re just talking,” Hayes said with a gentle smile. “But, yeah.”

Even Ellie took notice of this. P. G. Edderton was the kind of director she would know. He made quirky, art house kind of movies about manic pixie everyones, movies that were turned into thousands of gifs, full of phrases everyone knew.

“Well,” David said, “good luck with that.”

Again, his meaning was unclear. It didn’t sound like a good wish.

“You guys better get ready,” Pix called from the steps up to her rooms. “You have meetings to get to.”

Real life at Ellingham was calling.

9

STEVIE WALKED IN THE CLEAR SUNSHINE OF THE VERMONT MORNING, along the snaking paths and under the canopy of trees, to the Great House. She rang the bell by the massive front door. In Ellingham’s day, the door would then have been answered by his butler, Montgomery. Montgomery came up a lot in books about the case. He was the head of the Ellingham staff, trained in England, had served royalty, and was stolen away from one of the finest houses in Newport to head up the Ellingham Great House. After the kidnappings, he remained in service but was broken, shaken, and died a few years after.

No butler now. Just a gentle buzz to signal the door was open. She stepped into the cavernous space. Security Larry sat in the shadows at his desk right by the front door.

“Dr. Scott, right?” he said.

Stevie nodded.

“Have a seat over there,” he said, pointing to some chairs by the massive fireplace. A few people were already there, including Germaine Batt, who was doing something very intently on her phone. “When it’s your time, go up the stairs and turn left along the corridor,” he said, pointing to the balcony directly over his head. “He’s the very last room at the front of the building.”

“Iris Ellingham’s old bedroom,” Stevie said, looking up at the ceiling.

“That’s right,” Larry said, leaning back. “You’re interested in the case? What’s your favorite book on it?”

“Murder on the Mountain by Sanderson,” Stevie said without hesitation. “His style is annoying, but I think he explores the case in the most depth.”

“That’s a good one,” Larry said, nodding. “Did you read The Ellingham Case Files?”

“I think that jumps to a lot of conclusions,” she said.

He nodded at that.

The air in the Great House was cool, and there was a faint smokiness to it despite the fact that it was very unlikely that anyone had smoked in there since the 1930s. She knew so much about this building. This main hall was made of rosewood imported from India. The eight-foot-high fireplace was constructed of pink marble from the Carrara region of Italy, where Michelangelo’s marble was from. The fittings were all Austrian crystal, hand selected by one of the six architects who worked on the project. The stained glass in evidence everywhere was in the style of the Glasgow school (which meant something very fancy, Stevie wasn’t sure what), including a sunroom with a roof made of interlocking flowers and hidden birds.

“Stevie? Stevie Bell?”

She looked up at the sound of her name. Call Me Charles was on the floor above, at the rail, looking down. He was wearing a Green Lantern T-shirt and chinos, his hair a floppy, schoolboyish mess.

“Come on up,” Call Me Charles said. He met her at the top of the stairs and extended his hand for a shake.

A woman came out of a nearby door. The first thing Stevie noticed was her height, which was accentuated by a pair of black heels with a buttery, subtle sheen. As she turned, Stevie got a glimpse of the red undersides. She wasn’t a fashion expert, but she knew that heels like that were expensive, as was the finely cut pencil skirt and the large, complicated blouse sweater, mysteriously flowing and folding. Her long hair was delicately colored in an array of auburns and golds. The woman was working her phone.

“Morning, Jenny,” Charles called.

“Hey,” she said, not looking up. She strutted on, never missing a beat of her typing. There was no missing the dismissive attitude. Stevie had never seen anything like it at her old school. Charles smiled and covered well.

“That’s Dr. Quinn,” Charles said. “She teaches a seminar in American history and culture to all the first years. Come on. Let’s go to my office.”

The creaking wooden floors had carpet runners to muffle the noise. Each door on this level was made of heavy, dark wood, with sharply cut crystal doorknobs that looked like they would be painful to touch.

The last door, Iris and Call Me Charles’s, had a corkboard attached to the front. This was entirely covered in signs, small posters, and stickers: QUESTION EVERYTHING; STAND BACK, I’M GOING TO TRY SCIENCE!; I REJECT YOUR REALITY AND SUBSTITUTE MY OWN. The biggest sign was in the middle, and looked homemade. It read: CHALLENGE ME.

This was truly everything her parents feared, and it thrilled her as much as it repelled her.

Inside, the room had definitely been converted. The pale silver wallpaper was probably original, but now the room was crammed with bookcases, a few chairs, a desk, and a small sofa. There were books everywhere, filling the bookcases, stacked sideways on top of other books, piled on the floor, resting on the back of the sofa, stacked along the mantel. There were six different diplomas and certificates on the wall, all heavily framed—Harvard, Yale, Cambridge. There was a picture of a rowing team, a group photo from Cambridge . . . evidence everywhere of a long academic career of importance.

Charles waved Stevie into a chair. “So,” he said, “I have to say, Stevie, yours was one of the most interesting applications I’ve ever read.”

Stevie sucked in her breath. “Interesting” was one of those uncertain words.