Truly Devious (Truly Devious #1) - Maureen Johnson Page 0,53

suits were chosen, along with a hat and an overcoat. The prop closet, which was just as oppressive and even more loosely organized, produced a canvas bag and an oar for the fake boat.

Wednesday evening brought something unexpected—construction. The group gathered in the workshop, a barn structure off to the side of the maintenance area. It was open and cold and contained things that didn’t feature much in Stevie’s daily life: tables with circular saws, racks of tools, large industrial bins. This was where the students of Ellingham came to make things that required space and tools and fire. This didn’t include too many people, but it did include Janelle, who had a welding mask over her face and was staring down two pieces of metal. She lifted the mask as Stevie came in, and waved.

“I need you to cut these into lengths,” Dash said to Stevie, pointing at some wood. “Here are all the measurements.”

He shoved a piece of paper at Stevie.

She looked blankly at a bunch of numbers. “What?” she said.

“Cut. The wood. Into lengths.” Dash pointed at the wood, then the circular saw.

“You must be kidding,” Stevie said.

“I’ll do it,” Maris said, her voice thick with a can you believe this one doesn’t even use a circular saw vibe. She sauntered up to the saw in her fuzzy sweater and leaned over expertly.

The buzz saw cranked to life and Maris put a board on it and sliced it in two. The air filled with the scent of sawdust. Hayes came sauntering in while all of this work was going on, greeted everyone, and rested on the ground and studied his script.

“Hey,” Janelle said as Dash scooped up some poles from an upright storage container in the corner. “What are you doing with those?”

“Making light rigs,” Dash said.

“Oh no you are not. Those are my poles.”

“You can’t need all these poles,” Dash said.

“I do,” Janelle said.

“We just need them for a few days.”

“My poles are specially measured for my machine. These aren’t just any poles,” Janelle said.

“Look, there is no way you need all these poles. I’m taking some.”

“Could we borrow a few?” Stevie said quietly. “I’ll make sure you get them back.”

“For you,” Janelle said. “I would only give my poles to you.”

Dash had the poles out of the bucket in a shot and hurried them out of the workshop.

Maris had stopped sawing for a bit and was looking in a large blue industrial bin on the side of the room.

“There’s dry ice here,” she called to Dash. “Lots of it.”

“I have enough fog machines,” he said. “The liquid is easier to work with.”

Maris shrugged and shut the container.

After constructing their ramps and organizing their poles and all the things that would be needed to film in the sunken garden on Saturday, the plan was made for the excursion into the tunnel. It would be the next night, with everyone meeting behind the art barn at seven.

Still smelling of sawdust, Stevie walked home and dropped into bed. For a few minutes, she rested on her back, fully dressed, and felt the cool air from the window brush against her face. The late summer twilight fell into darkness. There were footsteps creaking above her. David was home. She could tell everyone in her house by their footsteps. She started to understand how Minerva settled and shifted almost musically. She reached up and felt the cool iron of the bedstead. She pulled her comforter over her, sealing herself in with the sawdust smell coming off her sweatpants. Janelle was behind one wall, Ellie the other. She was in the middle, and it felt utterly normal. The thought grabbed her. She had settled in. This was home, and she had almost completed a major project about the Ellingham case with her friends. Well, Nate was her friend, and probably Hayes and Maris and Dash. Her friend Janelle gave her supplies.

A pleasant wave of satisfaction swept over her, and it inspired her to lean over and grab her phone from the bedside stand. She had a note app on her phone that had carefully organized files of images and information about the Ellingham case. She clicked open the folder marked SOCIAL. This was her research on the life the Ellinghams had led up here before the tragedy, back when the house was just a weird and wonderful mountain showpiece, and famous friends would come to ski in the winter, watch the leaves in the fall, and drink all the time. Some