Truly Devious (Truly Devious #1) - Maureen Johnson Page 0,40

called.

“Hey,” she said, not looking up. She strutted on, never missing a beat of her typing. There was no missing the dismissive attitude. Stevie had never seen anything like it at her old school. Charles smiled and covered well.

“That’s Dr. Quinn,” Charles said. “She teaches a seminar in American history and culture to all the first years. Come on. Let’s go to my office.”

The creaking wooden floors had carpet runners to muffle the noise. Each door on this level was made of heavy, dark wood, with sharply cut crystal doorknobs that looked like they would be painful to touch.

The last door, Iris and Call Me Charles’s, had a corkboard attached to the front. This was entirely covered in signs, small posters, and stickers: QUESTION EVERYTHING; STAND BACK, I’M GOING TO TRY SCIENCE!; I REJECT YOUR REALITY AND SUBSTITUTE MY OWN. The biggest sign was in the middle, and looked homemade. It read: CHALLENGE ME.

This was truly everything her parents feared, and it thrilled her as much as it repelled her.

Inside, the room had definitely been converted. The pale silver wallpaper was probably original, but now the room was crammed with bookcases, a few chairs, a desk, and a small sofa. There were books everywhere, filling the bookcases, stacked sideways on top of other books, piled on the floor, resting on the back of the sofa, stacked along the mantel. There were six different diplomas and certificates on the wall, all heavily framed—Harvard, Yale, Cambridge. There was a picture of a rowing team, a group photo from Cambridge . . . evidence everywhere of a long academic career of importance.

Charles waved Stevie into a chair. “So,” he said, “I have to say, Stevie, yours was one of the most interesting applications I’ve ever read.”

Stevie sucked in her breath. “Interesting” was one of those uncertain words.

“You’re very enthusiastic about the history of this place, and in crime and criminal procedure. You have an interest in working for the FBI?”

Stevie nodded stiffly.

“That’s excellent. Let’s see what we’ve got here for you.”

He consulted his laptop, taking a moment to put on a pair of glasses.

“So, based on your interests, this is what we came up with. You’ll be taking anatomy and physiology, statistics, and Spanish . . . that covers your core and aligns with your interests. All very useful. Then we have you assigned to a tutor for readings in criminal justice and American legal history. You have yoga three times a week for your physical education. Everyone takes Dr. Quinn’s literature and history seminar. Usually, students do a small project in the first year that leads into the major project in the second. Have you given any thought to this over the summer?”

Stevie swallowed hard. She’d said it out loud the night before, but now, facing Charles, facing the actual reality of the situation, could she say it again? She pushed the words past the lump in her throat.

“My project . . . is solving the case.”

“Solving it?” Charles said, cocking his head. “Doing a report on it?”

“No,” she said. “I mean . . . figuring out what happened.”

Charles removed his glasses, folded them, and leaned back in his chair.

“That’s a fairly tall order,” he said. “Define that for me.”

“I’ve read all the theories,” she said, steadying herself in the chair. “I’ve read all the transcripts.”

“There are a lot of those, I think.”

“The main interviews are about eight thousand pages,” Stevie said. “I think the answer is here. I think someone who was in the house that day was responsible.”

“Hang on a moment,” Charles said. He leaned back and considered her for a moment, pressing his fist against his chin. Each moment of his pause pulled Stevie down into her chair farther and farther.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Follow me.”

He grinned the grin of a presenter on some educational show with a cartoon dog, as if to say, “Come with me if you want to learn.”

Stevie hopped up and followed him back down the hall, to the back set of stairs. They went up a floor to a door with a polite PRIVATE sign on it and a digital access pad. Stevie liked rooms marked PRIVATE with digital access pads. Stevie watched as Charles entered the access code on the pad. He made no effort to hide the number, which led Stevie to think he wanted her to see it.

“1936?” she asked.

“Not very creative,” he replied with a smile. “But easy to remember.”

The attic steps were narrow, plain, stained dark. Once