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