He extends his hands, palms up, and holds them there like he expects to collect rain in them. “Okay, here’s what we know. Natalia didn’t like Milo. She thought he cheated to get ahead and cheated to beat her in class and in a writing contest. She’s undocumented, and our friend here”—he points at the body—“clearly doesn’t like that and wants to keep the rewards from anyone with her status. Have you seen his Twitter feed? It’s odious. Now, Natalia was in proximity to both of them. She had the bag of powder in her pocket, which could be poison. She’s the most unassuming, the quietest, of all of us, so she can fly under the radar. That’s the perfect cover if you want to kill someone.” He points again, this time at the pocket doors. “And we’re locked in here. And she’s out there. With everybody else.”

  64

  WE REACH THE DOOR, and the captain looks ready to charge through the heavy wood.

  But I raise my hand, silently asking him to slow down. And he pauses and nods, accepting my leadership of the situation. At least for the moment.

  I put my ear to the door again, straining to hear anything. Silence.

  I knock with the bottom of my fist, three knocks meant to summon someone to the door. Then we wait.

  Nothing.

  I knock again, a little louder. “Hey. Hello. Who’s out there?”

  Floorboards squeak outside the door. At least I think that’s what I’m hearing. I hope. The steps come closer.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Gaines?” A small voice from the other side.

  “Natalia? Will you unlock the door and let us out? We should all be together. It’s safer that way.”

  “I already told you we want it this way,” she says. “Did the captain explain what happened to Duffy yet? He’s in bad shape out here. I think he’s saying someone came up behind him before he got hurt. That’s not good.”

  “You think?”

  “Sir, you’re not going to listen to that junk they’re saying, you of all people. . . .”

  “See, Mr. Gaines,” Natalia says from the other side of the door. “We’re just not comfortable—”

  “These accusations, sir . . . they’re getting to me.”

  “I understand that, Captain,” I say, managing to keep my voice much more level than I feel. “But I need to know if I can continue to defend you. What happened in the cellar?”

  Some energy has drained out of the captain, leaving him more limp in posture and attitude than I’ve seen all day. “Would you accept it if I said I don’t really know, that I’m not sure?”

  “On another day, I would. Today . . . I’ve about lost the ability to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.”

  The captain purses his lips like he just ate a lemon. “Fair enough, sir. You’re a good man, so I’ll tell you what I know.” He scratches his chin again. “It’s dark down there, and I couldn’t see very well. I followed that path in the cellar. Heck, I even banged into that pipe you banged into. I got closer to Duffy and saw he was working on that bulkhead door with something. I’m not sure what. But he was trying to work on that opening and get out. And I told him to wait.”

  The captain stops his story. He looks into the distance, replaying the events he’s describing in his mind and not giving voice to them anymore.

  I clear my throat, try to bring him back to the parlor in Hyde House instead of the cellar. “If you were just defending yourself and something went very wrong, you can tell me. You and Duffy had some tensions running both ways today. I’ll see you’re treated fairly.”

  He blinks his eyes a few times, returns to our conversation. “Are you trying to lead me into a confession?”

  “I’m trying to understand what happened, that’s all.”

  “Duffy was holding something in his hand. A crowbar. A screwdriver. I’m not sure.” The captain lifts his hands in the air. “Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut so I’m not misunderstood.”

  “Captain—James—don’t shut me out of this.”

  “I was going to convince him to stay—or come clean—and that’s when you showed up. We got him out together.”

  “How did he get hurt?”

  “Didn’t you assume the worst when we were down in the cellar together? When you approached me in the dark?”

  I don’t answer, which serves as an answer.

  “There you go,” he says. “If your mind is made up, I can’t change it. I’ve learned that much in life.”

  My mind bounces from one side to the other like a metronome. It can’t stop or settle. “Let’s hope Duffy ends up being okay.”

  “I hope the same thing,” he says. Then pauses. “I guess I hoped you would believe me. Nobody else does.”

  His gaze hits me hard.

  “We’re united in a common purpose right now, Captain.” I tilt my head toward the locked pocket door. “We need to get out.”

  The captain raises his index finger again. “I’m way ahead of you on that.”

  He walks across the room, stepping gracefully over Nicholas’s body like he’s a sleeping dog. He gets to the far wall and the fireplace. He reaches up, stretching his body to its full length, and starts tugging on the major’s cavalry sword in its scabbard, which has been mounted there for over one hundred years. It takes a few tries, but he gets it down.

  Looking as at ease with the weapon as one of the three musketeers, the captain draws the blade from its scabbard with a flourish and stands in the center of the room like a vision of nineteenth-century soldiery.

  “Sir, I know the college is in some dire financial straits. It took you a while to try to break a window. Can the school bear just a tiny bit of property damage to that door?”

  “It can. But just . . .”

  I go closer to the door and make a last attempt. “Hey? Hello? Natalia? Anyone?”

  Only silence. The captain is coming toward me, sword raised.

  There’s no choice, so I step out of the way, and the captain raises the sword like he’s Abraham and the door is Isaac and he brings it down against the lock with a sharp crack like an ax hitting a tree in the woods.

  It takes a moment, but he works the blade loose from the wood and prepares to swing again. I’m not sure how many hacks it’s going to take to get the lock open, but I’m willing to go for it.

  The captain prepares to swing again, but I lift my hand. “Wait.”

  He cuts his eyes my way, and for a moment, I think he’s going to swing anyway and slice my hand from my body.

  But he stops. “Sir?”

  I keep my hand in the air. I move back to the door and press my ear against the wood again. For a moment, I believe I’ve imagined things, that nothing is out there.

  Then the voice again.

  “Mr. Gaines?”

  Faint and weak. A man’s voice.

  “Duffy?” I ask.

  More silence. How warped has my mind become that I’m hearing the voice of a man who can’t even move?

  The lock starts to click. It takes nearly thirty seconds, but then the door slides an inch, making a small opening.

  I seize the moment and work my fingers into the opening and pull. The door slides all the way open, revealing Duffy, his arm draped over Sydney’s shoulder. He looks like a ghost.

  “Mr. Gaines . . .”

  65

  DUFFY LIFTS HIS EYES.

  The movement appears to cost him a great deal of energy. Like he’s a dying man carrying out his last wish.

  “Duffy, you should be lying down.”

  “He insisted,” Sydney says. “It’s some kind of macho thing.”

  Duffy’s eyes look glassy, like they have a film pasted over them. He blinks rapidly. Someone repurposed a hand towel and wrapped it around his head as a bandage. Blood seeps through, a red spot the size of a half dollar. And growing.

  “Mr. Gaines . . .”

  “Duffy, this can wait, I’m sure. Why don’t we—”

  His eyes focus on a spot just past my left ear. The captain stands behind me and to that side, the sword still clutched in his right hand. My feet rest on pieces of the splintered door.

  “I want to tell you . . . about the cellar. . . .”

  “He’s not coherent, sir.”

  “He might be.” I slide next to him, lifting his free arm over my shoulder so that Sydney and I can guide him into the room. “There’s a sofa in here, okay? Lie down on it.”

  Duffy moves his feet. Tentative half steps like an old man’s. But he moves forward. Slowly.

  The captain backs out of the way, the sword held across his chest like he’s an Arthurian knight. Duffy catches sight of it and freezes.

  “Why does he have a sword, Mr. Gaines?” His breath comes in frantic puffs.

  “No one’s going to hurt anyone, Duffy. Okay?”

  My words hover in the air between us, as empty as a deflated balloon. What does it mean for me to make any promise to anyone in this house? Two people are dead. One is seriously hurt. How can I make promises about safety?

  We get Duffy moving again, but the captain makes him stop with his next words.

  “What about what we talked about, concerning Natalia?”

  “Leave her alone,” Duffy says.

  Sydney keeps her body supporting Duffy but manages to move a little closer to the captain. “She’s been through enough already. She thinks you’re going to turn her in for her status. She’s scared—”

  “Sydney. We said—” Duffy coughs, cutting off his words.

  “You said what?” I ask.

  Sydney clamps her lips shut. Duffy clears his throat but doesn’t speak.

  “I’m not turning anyone in,” the captain says.

  “Come on.”

  We maneuver Duffy to the sofa and ease him down. Sydney lifts his feet and swings them off the floor while I adjust the pillows behind his head, trying to get him comfortable.

  Duffy’s eyes are closed tight. It doesn’t seem possible, but more color drains out of his face. His skin looks see-through.

  “Okay, we’ll let him rest,” I say. “But where is Natalia? We do need to talk to her. In fact, let’s just get Natalia and Emily in here. We can all talk.”

  “Duffy and I haven’t been interviewed,” Sydney says.

  “There’s time for that, if he can even talk. But for right now, where are Natalia and Emily? Can you go get them, Sydney? I’d like us all to be together. To be safe.”

  She remains in place, arms folded across her chest.

  “We’ll keep an eye on Duffy. And you can come right back.”

  “The captain will keep an eye on him?”

  “Will you go get them?” I ask.

  “I’m here.”

  It’s Emily standing in the doorway. She leans against the jamb, her tattooed arms crossed.

  “Where’s Natalia? Is she in the hallway?”

  Sydney and Emily exchange a look. Something passes between them, some understanding, but I can’t hazard a guess about what it means.

  “Well?”

  Silence.

  Except—Duffy groans on the sofa. His eyes remain closed, but his mouth works around like he’s chewing something sticky.

  “Duffy?” I say.

  His lips move silently. He groans again.

  Then he says, “I told her . . . about the doors . . . the opening. . . . She’s getting out. . . .”

  66

  AT THE PARLOR DOOR, Emily blocks my way.

  She refuses to budge, even as I get closer.

  “Just let her go, okay? She’s scared. She’s worried someone’s going to turn her in for being undocumented. Or that she’ll have to talk to the police and get busted. Can’t we just respect her right to leave if she wants?”

  “I just want to talk to her,” I say. “To help her understand what’s going on. It might be worse for her if she runs.”

  “What is going on, then?” Emily asks. “Besides Natalia’s oppression because she doesn’t have papers to present on your command.”

  “I just want to—”

  “It’s possible she’s guilty, isn’t it?” the captain asks. “She hated Milo, and she could have poisoned him to knock him out of the competition. And she found out that Mr. Hyde didn’t approve of undocumented students. It’s in the book right there. The bylaws. So she offed him too. With those pills we found.”

  “Pills . . .” Duffy’s voice is a faint croak. “She had . . .”

  “He’s right. The crushed-up pills are kind of weird,” Emily says. “But that doesn’t mean— I mean, I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “What about the book?” Sydney asks.

  The captain points to the book of bylaws and tells her to turn to the last page. Sydney does, and when she reads the note, she lifts her hand to her mouth and makes a choking sound, like a drowning person emerging from the water.

  “This is sick.” She walks over, holding the book out to Emily. “If Mr. Hyde wrote this, then he . . .”

  “Deserved to die?” I ask.

  Emily reads the note, shaking her head. She slams the book down against the floor with a loud splat, which makes Duffy flinch on the sofa.

  “I didn’t say that. . . .” Sydney kicks the bylaws out into the hallway. “I don’t know.”

  “Can you excuse me, Emily?” I say. “I just want to go talk to Natalia.”

  “To harass her?”

  “To let her know that no one—and I mean, no one—is going to jump to any conclusions.”

  “Mr. Hyde did,” Sydney says.

  “She’s already in the basement,” Emily says. “She’s going to be gone.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Where is she going?”

  “Just let her go.”

  “Sir, those bulkhead doors open to the rear of the house. And the woods. If she gets through them, she can run. And the police won’t see her.”

  The last thing I want to do is return to the cellar. To push my body through that dark space, following a scared young woman . . .

  But she’s making a mistake. Things will be far worse if she runs.

  And we don’t really know what she did—

  “Stay here,” I say. “All of you.”

  “Sir, I can—”

  “All of you. Stay here. And if anyone else gets hurt . . . Just stay here.”

  Emily steps out of the way. I bend over, grab the bylaws, and quickly move down the hallway toward the back of the house and the kitchen. Silverware, cups, and a bloody towel litter the floor. A bloodstain decorates the table as well, like someone butchered a side of beef. But I know the blood spilled from the back of Duffy’s head.

  The cellar door hangs wide open, only darkness beyond.

  And this time I hold no Sterno can or light of any kind. I stop in the doorway, lift my free hand to my mouth. “Natalia?”

  The sound of movement reaches me. Scuffling footsteps. Metal clanging.

  “Natalia? Why don’t you come up? We can talk. . . .”

  The movement continues, the sound receding. I have no choice.

  I start down the stairs.

  Step-squeak-step-squeak.

  67

  A DIFFERENT SOUND REACHES me when I step off the stairs and onto the dirt floor.

  A pounding. Deep, steady. Desperate.

  It comes from the far side of the cellar, where the bulkhead doors lead out to the rest of the world. Without the Sterno can, it’s impossible for me to make out Natalia’s shape over there. But something glows where the pounding is happening—the opening I’d seen earlier when I was down here with the captain.

  It looks larger, like Natalia has managed to expand it by a good six inches.

  And she continues to bash the doors.

  “Natalia?”

  Her response is to keep beating at the hinges of the doors.

  My feet move toward her slowly. Carefully. My memory guides me slightly, but I’m flying blind, trying my damnedest to remember the path through the junk that fills the major’s cellar. I bump into a pile of crates. They start to fall and so do I, teetering to my right. I reach out into black air, hoping to steady myself. When I reach the point where I know I’m going to fall and land on God knows what, my body finds an equilibrium point, and I stop.

  Balance returns, and I straighten. I hold the book of bylaws in my left hand, sweat forming where my hand touches the leather cover. My heart pounds three times as fast as it should. And the crates finally go, falling over like a demolished building, the crash so loud it murders my ears.

  When it’s over, the cellar falls silent. My near catastrophe causes Natalia to stop her hammering. I seize the moment, hoping to convince her to stop.

  “Natalia? Will you just talk to me for a second?”

  “About what?” Her voice is small and distant in the dank space. “About turning me in?”

  “No one’s turning you in.”

  “The captain wants to, doesn’t he?”

  “He said he didn’t.”

  “He thinks I killed Milo. And Mr. Hyde. Because of the bag of pills. They all think that.”

  “People are theorizing about a lot of things.”

  I start moving forward again. Half steps. Trying to be quiet. If I can’t see her, she can’t see me. After five feet, my knee hits the metal pipe again.

  “Argh, fuck.”

  “Watch out for that pipe,” she says. “I just missed it.”

  My eyes squint shut, a wash of red behind the lids. A bruise on top of a bruise. I start forward again.

  “I have no idea what’s really going on, Natalia. But I know that Mr. Hyde didn’t approve of your immigration status.”

  “So you think I hurt Mr. Hyde? Will you stop walking toward me?”

  I freeze. The air brushing against my face is warmer than before. Perhaps leaking in from the opening Natalia has worked on, a hint of the freedom that waits outside.