of queasiness. Would they talk about what had happened? And if they did, what would they say? Maybe they would never talk about it. Maybe things that happened on nights like last night didn’t count.
Something in her plunged at that thought, and she stared into her coffee. It tasted dank and bitter, but it was hot, and drinking it made her feel something other than weird. So she drank it.
“Stevie,” Pix said, coming in. “That was Larry. They need to talk to you again, up at the Great House. He’s coming for you.”
Janelle looked at her fearfully. Nate went pale.
“That’s normal,” Stevie said. “The police do that. They need to ask the same questions several times to clarify the information.”
“Everyone else has to stay here,” Pix said.
“All day?” Ellie said, looking up from David’s lap. Her voice had that thick tone that happens after someone has been crying a lot.
“For now,” Pix said. “There are counselors coming if you need to talk.”
David rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
There were two police cars from the Vermont state police under the portico of the Great House as Stevie and Larry approached it a short while later.
“Just say what you know,” Larry said. “Just tell the truth.”
“I know,” Stevie said.
“How are you holding up?”
“I think I’m fine. Maybe it hasn’t hit yet. Is that bad?”
“It’s not bad or good. It just is. That’s something you’ll find out if you decide to go into this line of work. You have to take things as they are, not how you hear they’re supposed to be.”
That was one of the most sensible things an adult had ever said to Stevie.
Once inside, Stevie thought she’d be going to the security room, but instead Larry took her to the massive oak door that led to Albert Ellingham’s office.
“In here?” she said.
“That’s where the detective is speaking to people,” he said. “Just answer her questions. You’ll be all right.”
A detective this time. Not a uniformed officer.
Two leather chairs sat by the massive rose-marble fireplace, the disturbing trophy rug spread between them. A petite woman in a gray suit sat in one of these chairs writing in a small notebook.
“Stephanie?” she said, consulting the book. “My name is Detective Agiter. Come sit down.”
Stevie sat down in the opposite chair, one of Albert Ellingham’s personal chairs. Even though it was very old, the leather was still in fine condition and it had an easy, comfortable give. This is where he sat, running his empire, thinking of his lost wife and daughter.
Detective Agiter was a carefully curated palette of neutrals. She had long, elegant hands. Her dark hair was swept tight across her head into a bun, not a single strand out of place. Stevie most admired her shoes, which were utterly nondescript black flats. There was a studied stillness to her face. Never give anything away. Stevie needed to master this look. This was what a detective looked like.
I’m just going to record this,” she said, putting a digital recorder down on the small Art Deco table between them. “Interview between Stephanie Bell and Detective Fatima Agiter, Sunday, September tenth, nine forty-five a.m. Now, Stephanie, or Stevie?”
“Stevie.”
“Stevie, you were involved in the filming of video that was about the Ellingham kidnapping. Whose idea was the video?”
“Hayes’s.”
“How did you get involved?”
“He came and he asked me to help him make it.”
“And why did he ask you?” the detective said.
“Because I know a lot about it.”
“About the Ellingham kidnappings, you mean?” the detective clarified. Stevie nodded and admonished herself internally. You were supposed to be clear. It wasn’t clear.
“I know a lot about the Ellingham case. It’s what I came here to study. The crime . . . the history of it.”
“So Hayes wanted to make a show about the Ellingham kidnappings, and he came to you because you know about it. And you asked Nathaniel because he’s a writer?”
“Hayes asked me to ask him,” Stevie said.
“So it sounds like Hayes was assembling a group of people, all with different areas of knowledge. There was also Maris Coombes, who has theater experience, and Patrick Dashell, who studies film. And together, the group of you put this project together.”
“Correct,” Stevie said.
“How did you access the tunnel?”
Stevie’s heart lurched a bit.
“I opened the lock,” she said.
“How did you open it?”
“I picked it,” Stevie said.
The detective raised one of her well-groomed eyebrows, her only tell in this interview.
“You picked it?” she clarified.
“That’s right,” Stevie said. There was no denying it. She picked a lock. Good-bye, Ellingham.