On the mantel were several containers of Ben Nye stage makeup—most still open, with powder spilled onto the black surface. There was silver-gray hair liquid, buff powder, spirit gum, bone wax, latex, pancake base, pencils of various colors, blood capsules, used sponges and brushes, and weird little pieces of fake skin. A comb was stained silver from the hair treatment. There was a kit on the floor that looked like a tackle box that had even more makeup inside. It was all messy, but it was professional.

The fan art—that was the main feature of the room. It took up two walls. Stevie examined it all under the tiny glow of her phone flashlight. Most of it was drawings of Hayes as Logan. So many drawings. Some in black-and-white pencil, some in color. Some were rough and amateur, but some were of a very high quality. There were also letters, poems, photos of Hayes with fans, hearts, cards . . . every variety of paper communication was there. The larger objects were on the floor or the fireplace—stuffed animals, cross-stitch, a model of the End of It All set with a tiny Hayes in clay.

Hayes’s room was, in short, a tribute to Hayes. Riddle, riddle, on the wall, who’s most famous of them all?

She took pictures of it all, starting in one corner of the room and working section by section. It took about half an hour to do it all. By the end, she had a fairly clear picture of someone who was interested in the business of being Hayes.

Stevie turned her attention to Hayes’s computer. The top had a thick patina of stickers—again, mostly for Hayes’s show, but a few for online channels and skiing. There was a scrape down the front as well. Hayes hadn’t been too careful with the laptop, clearly. There were very few files on the computer. One was marked IDEAS. She opened up a text document that simply read:

Summer camp that trains killers

Camp that trains spies

Spies who

Camp?

A world where you can

The list ended here.

“I think Hayes was out of ideas,” she said to herself.

She did a search on his computer for files related to The End of It All. There were loads of emails, but only a few video files—one long one and lots of short ones of similar size, as if the long one had been cut up. The main one was dated June 4, and the others June 9–14.

A quick Web search revealed that The End of It All had been released twice a week, starting on June 20. There were ten episodes in total. June 20, June 23, June 27, June 30, July 4, July 7, July 11, July 14, July 18, July 21. A quick check of last year’s schedule showed that Ellingham’s move-out day was June 6.

The main file had been made on June 4.

It was made here.

I went home to Florida last year, surfed for a few days, and it just came to me . . .

“No, it didn’t,” Stevie said aloud.

So why say it was? Why lie about where you made it?

There was a voice outside. Stevie froze in position. It wasn’t outside, though. It was coming through the wall, and it sounded angry.

David’s voice. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, so she set the computer aside and crept over to the wall. She could still only make out a mumble, and then one shouted word: “Allison!”

“Who is Allison?” Stevie whispered to herself.

She felt an anxiety rumble. Allison. A girlfriend? A real one? Not some idiot at school. Allison instantly developed a face, an entire profile. She had long hair and a surfboard. She looked good in shorts. She got waxings. She laughed in her sleep.

Stevie slapped herself gently on the forehead to make it stop and continued to try to listen, but all had gone silent on the other side of the wall. Now it was just her and her thudding heart in Hayes’s room.

Pix would be back soon. Stevie shut off Hayes’s computer and tucked it back where she’d found it. She turned off the light, picked up her shoes, and returned the towel to the door. Then, after making sure there was no noise in the hall or coming from David’s room, she cracked open the door.

The hall was empty.

She slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind her. She got all the way to the steps when she heard a door open behind her. She turned to see David looking at her.

“Hey,” she said.

He didn’t reply. Nor did he seem to know that she had just come from Hayes’s room.

“Come on,” she said. “Say something. You can’t not talk to me forever. We live together.”

“Something,” he said. But there was no humor in his voice.

“How about this,” she said. “Can you listen? You don’t have to talk. I’ll keep it short. Will that work?”

David considered this for a moment, then shrugged.

“Can I come in for two seconds?” she said.

He indicated his door was open, and then went back inside. Stevie steadied herself, then followed.

David did not sit down. He stood in the middle of his room, his arms folded.

“What?” he said.

“I want to say I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” he said.

Then, nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Fine. If that’s it, you can go.”

“Seriously?” she said. The anger was building up again. All the feeling she had been pressing down for a few days shot up unexpectedly. “Come on. You won’t tell me anything about yourself. You lied at dinner.”

“I made a joke at dinner because I didn’t feel like talking about my dead parents.”

“I’m the worst. I know I am. But I’m also sorry. You don’t know how sorry.”

“Why are you holding your shoes?” he said.

Stevie had forgotten about the shoes.

“I just took them off,” she said.

He tilted his head to the side and looked at her for a long minute. She had an idea, which was probably a terrible idea. But lacking any other ideas, it was the one to go with. Radical honesty. Just tell him. Open up.

“I was in Hayes’s room,” she said.

He burst out laughing, but again, there was no humor in it.

“I know how that sounds,” she said, talking over him, “but I had a key. Listen to me. I had to go. Pix was about to box it up and everything would be gone.”

“And you just needed a few more minutes with his memory?”

“Something weird is going on,” she said. “I can’t put my finger on what it is. . . .”

“I think I can,” he said. “There’s someone in this house who keeps going through other people’s stuff. Someone should do something about it.”

That hurt. She felt her eyes sting.

“So why did you have to go in there?” he asked. “Do you have to get into every room in this hall? Is that your thing?”

“Hayes didn’t write The End of It All,” she said.

“Says who?”

“Says common sense. I worked on a show with him. He never did anything. And someone else did all of his schoolwork last year. And there is nothing on his computer that shows he did any of it or that he had any ability to write something new. And his ex-girlfriend thinks . . .”

“Gretchen,” David said, rolling his eyes.

“Gretchen,” Stevie replied.

“Gretchen was pissed at him. She broke up with him. It was a whole drama last year.”

“Hayes played everyone,” Stevie said. “Hayes used everyone. Hayes did none of his own work but took the benefits. And then Hayes dies doing the project that would have allowed him to go off to LA and reap the benefits of everyone else’s labor. Doesn’t it sound unlikely that Hayes would have gone to all that effort to do something that doesn’t even make any sense?”