“Seriously?” Stevie said. That was a side of Hayes she had not seen.

“Seriously. That was when I should have been done. I should have turned and gone back to my house. Ellie was so mad at him for that. She smacked him on the back of the head on the way to Burlington and yelled at him, told him that was no way to treat people. Hayes said sorry. Hayes always said sorry. He said it was a joke, but . . . you don’t get to say that, you know? You don’t get to frighten people and threaten them and say you’re only kidding. Because you’re not.”

A picture was developing, and it was not a pretty one.

“That guy, the security guy?” Gretchen said. “He left, maybe three weeks later. I don’t know why. I always wondered. That was it for me. I broke up with Hayes. It was on April first, so I think he thought I was kidding. I wasn’t. He took it really well. A little too well. He said he understood. Everything was good for a day or two, and then he texted me and said he wanted to talk for a minute, nothing serious. Could I meet him in the art barn? So I did. Once I was there, he suddenly goes into this whole performance. He starts saying how much he loved me and how he can’t believe I cheated. I mean, it was Oscar-worthy and it came out of nowhere. I didn’t cheat on him. He kept saying all this stuff I’d supposedly done, all made up. And there were lots of people in the room next door, so everyone heard it. When he was done, he nodded to the wall and smiled at me and wiped his fake tears. He was trying to get me back by making me look like a villain. He already had someone else lined up, by the way. Beth. That girl he hooked up with in Chicago? That was already going on.”

She stopped for a moment and shook her head.

“This is why I can’t talk about it,” she said. “No one wants to hear this about a guy who died.”

Stevie let this statement linger for a moment. A new idea popped into her head—suddenly she had the words for something that had been eating at her thoughts.

“Do you think he wrote his show?” she said.

Gretchen looked over in confusion.

“What, the zombie thing?” she said. “Definitely not.”

Stevie didn’t expect such a firm answer to a question that had just come into her head.

“I told you,” Gretchen said. “He didn’t do his own work.”

“He told me he wrote it,” Stevie said.

Gretchen gave her a what did I say face.

“Sorry to bother you,” Stevie said, getting off the floor.

“Are you with David Eastman?” Gretchen asked as Stevie was about to leave.

Stevie gulped.

“No,” she said after a moment.

“Oh. I thought you were. I was going to say, good luck with that.”

Stevie wanted to ask what this meant, but Gretchen had turned back to the piano and began playing again. It was passionate and powerful, the music drumming out of her furious hands.

25

STEVIE’S HEAD WAS THRUMMING AS SHE MADE HER WAY BACK TO Minerva. That was what was bothering her. What if Hayes hadn’t written The End of It All? What did that mean?

Well, for a start, that movie he was talking about—that could have gotten kind of complicated.

When she arrived home, she found Pix opening a number of boxes in the common room.

“What are those for?” she asked.

“Hayes’s things,” Pix said quietly. “His parents have asked me to box up his room so they wouldn’t have to do it. It’s the least I can do.”

There was a key on the table with a cardboard tag hanging off it that said 6. The key to Hayes’s room.

“Are you doing that tonight?” Stevie said.

“Tonight, tomorrow,” Pix said. “I have a meeting in half an hour and I’ll probably start afterward. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Stevie said. “Fine.”

Back in her room, Stevie considered this development. Hayes’s things would be gone soon. Which meant information would be gone. Not that she needed information. It’s just that something . . . something . . . something was wrong. And the answers to what was wrong might be up in his room. For example, maybe there was an answer about The End of It All?

What would that give her, though?

Stevie paced. She walked around the room, staring at the edge of her case board peering out from under her bed. No good had come of her looking in rooms upstairs, but . . .

Stevie returned to the common room.

“You know,” she said to Pix, “I feel like I need to help. Can I put together these boxes?”

“Sure,” Pix said. “Sure. That would be great, Stevie.”

Stevie smiled the smile of the lying and took Pix’s seat at the table. The key to Minerva Six was next to her.

“I’ll head off,” Pix said, grabbing her field jacket from the hook by the door and covering her peach-fuzz head with a woolen hat. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stevie said. “It’s just good to have a project.”

“I get that,” Pix said. “Back soon.”

As soon as she was gone, Stevie took the key.

Hayes’s room was dark when Stevie let herself in. The curtain was drawn. There was a towel hanging on the back of the door. She set this by the crack at the bottom of the door to keep light from escaping, in case anyone came by. She slipped her shoes off to lessen the sound of her steps on the floor, then stepped gently across the room to Hayes’s desk, turned on the desk light, swiveled Hayes’s chair toward the center of the room, and sat down.

Yes, she was going through another room. But her reasons were good, and that was what mattered. She was here because something about Hayes’s death was bothering her, and Hayes couldn’t do anything to help himself.

That sounded like a good excuse.

The first step was to take in the scene—not looking for anything in particular. Just to take it in, as it was. She allowed herself to gently spin in the chair, getting a panoramic view.

This was how Hayes left things in his life. He had come to his room to prepare for the show. His bed appeared to have been made, but then disturbed. The top blanket was twisted and pulled up. Hayes’s desk was a dumping ground for all kinds of things—computer, hair products, cables, camera, microphone, piles of fan mail and fan art. There was a bag from a bookstore sitting on the desk shelf. Stevie picked this up and pulled out the contents. Four books on acting, all apparently unread, a receipt sticking out of the top of one of them. The books had been purchased at a store in New York on August 26, just a few days before Hayes went back to school. There was another bag of books on the floor. These were all plays: David Mamet. Sam Shepard. Tony Kushner. Tom Stoppard. Arthur Miller. Shakespeare.

“What a dudely selection,” she said to herself. She ran a finger along the spines for cracking or signs of use. There were none.

Into the desk drawers. The first one contained sticky notes, packs of good-quality pens, three Moleskine notebooks. With the exception of one notebook and one pack of pens, all were still wrapped, and only one pen had been removed. The next drawer, a bigger one, contained mostly cables. The last drawer was empty.

She made her way around the room clockwise. The bureau was piled with bath and styling products, all in disarray. She had a brief look in the drawers. She examined a drawer of colorful boxers. She pushed these to the side, looked for anything underneath. Nothing remarkable. The same went for a drawer of T-shirts, another of socks. Around to the closet, which was already partially open. His clothes all looked fairly new, all normal labels like J. Crew and Abercrombie & Fitch. Mall brands, but the more expensive ones.