There was some awkward shuffling getting out of the room, as it wasn’t really clear what condition Ellie was in. The Great House creaked and groaned a bit in the fall wind. Ellie was left in Ellingham’s office. Once everyone else was outside the door, Larry turned the key in the lock.

“You’re locking her in?” Charles said.

“You’re damn right I am. And the French doors are secured from the outside.”

“She’s not a prisoner,” Charles said.

“No, but she may have killed someone. She’s safe in there.”

“Well, I’m getting her some food and water,” Charles said.

“Whatever you want,” Larry replied.

He gestured for a security officer to stand in front of the door.

“You,” he said to Stevie. “With me.”

He took her into the security office and shut the door.

“Sit,” he said.

He called for a police cruiser to be sent at once. When he got off the phone, he looked at Stevie gravely.

“You should have come to me,” he said.

“With what?” Stevie said.

“When you knew Hayes was on the phone when he was supposed to have been in the workshop.”

“Sorry,” Stevie said. “It didn’t seem like enough.”

“Enough for what? This was not your call. Do you realize what could happen here? It’s clear Element is hiding something. It’s possible she killed Hayes. More than possible. You don’t play with that.”

“I know,” she said.

Larry rubbed under his eyes.

“So you’ll wait here until the police come and we’ll sort it out.”

He got up and left, leaving Stevie in the chair to look at the security screens that showed nothing but darkness and the forms of trees and the occasional glowing pair of animal eyes. She went into a kind of trance for a moment.

The letter she had seen on her wall re-formed itself in her mind. It had body now. The words began to return. Riddle, riddle, on the wall . . .

. . . murder comes to pay a call.

That’s what it said. Maybe it was real. Maybe Ellie had done it? Maybe it was an art thing. Because there would be no reason to say you were going to murder someone, right?

There was yelling outside the door. Stevie sprang up and looked out. The door to the office was open, and Charles stood by it, holding a water and some fruit. The other security officers ran to the door.

“What do you mean?” Larry was saying. “Goddammit, she could get killed out there if she goes too far . . .”

“How did it happen?” Dr. Quinn said.

“She must have popped the panel,” Larry said. “How the hell did she know about the panel? Dennis, get to the basement. The passage leads to the basement. Lauren, Benny, get outside, check all the windows. . . .”

The panel. Stevie had read about this. There was supposed to be some kind of passage between Ellingham’s office and the ballroom, mostly used for jokes and games. It led to the basement. But apparently it was worked cleverly into the wall, not easy to see.

Ellie was gone.

October 30, 1938

THIS PARTICULAR MORNING WAS STUNNINGLY BRIGHT AND BLUE, A PERFECT fall day, not a cloud in the sky. The trees were holding on to the remains of their golden crowns.

Robert Mackenzie sat at his desk, listening to the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. This was more or less the only sound he heard, aside from Montgomery or one of the other staff walking past the door, or the occasional voices of the students moving from building to building. But even they were subdued. When he watched them from the window they always turned away when they saw someone in the Great House looking back.

Mackenzie now had far more space than he needed, since he’d been moved out of Albert Ellingham’s office and into one of the front sunrooms after the trial was over.

“You might as well use the space,” his employer had said. “It’s not being used for anything else.”

But he knew that the real reason was that his employer wanted to be alone. Alone in that office all day, the doors shut. Meals were taken on occasion. Visitors were rare. The curtains were closed to the world. But there was always the possibility of Alice.

The possibility of Alice. Never found. The question, always hanging. Was she . . . ? Was she . . . ?

Ellingham spoke of Alice in the present tense, always. The household always prepared for her return. Three times a year, Ellingham had a buyer in New York send back a full wardrobe of that season’s children’s clothing, each time in the approximate size Alice should be. Piles of dresses and pinafores, tiny sweaters and stockings in every color, pajamas, coats, hats, gloves, fur mufflers, patent leather shoes . . . all of it would be unboxed by Iris’s personal maid, who was still on staff, and arranged in Alice’s closets. The previous, unused set would be given to charity. She received birthday and Christmas presents—a magnificent Stewart Warner radio, a rocking horse from London, a library of classics, a porcelain miniature tea set from Paris, and a stunning dollhouse replica of the Ellingham Great House.

These tasks were so depressing that the staff frequently cried while performing them, but never in front of Mr. Ellingham. In front of him, they always spoke of Miss Alice positively. “Miss Alice will love her new spring dresses, sir.” “Wonderful radio for Miss Alice, sir. She’ll be thrilled.”

It was the possibility of Alice that led to the draining of the lake last June. An anonymous tip suggested that Alice’s body might be on the bottom. Despite the fact that this was unlikely, Ellingham ordered the lake to be drained. Robert felt that this was almost an act of revenge against the lake for its unwitting role on that horrible night. Now the lake was a pit, a constant reminder of loss.

This was the airless atmosphere in the Great House that morning when the buzzer went off on Robert Mackenzie’s desk. He picked up his notebook and pencil and went into Albert Ellingham’s office. This morning, the curtains were open. The wall of French doors revealed that still-surreal view of the empty lake. Robert would never quite get used to seeing the gaping wound in the ground.

“I am going to the yacht club,” Ellingham 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.”

“That’s a very good idea,” Robert said. “Would you like me to arrange 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 passed Robert a Western Union slip. Albert Ellingham hadn’t written a riddle in some time, so Robert took it eagerly.

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

He looked up at his employer. There was a strange intensity in his eyes.

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

The thought trailed off. He plucked the paper back and set it on his desk.

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