Sincerely,

Marshall Meadows

Associate Dean of Undergraduate Students

He knew what he was doing, Paul says, when I've finished reading.

Who?

Vincent. This morning.

Threatening you with the letter?

He knew he had nothing on me. So he started in on your dad.

I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft.

You're the one who ran, I say under my breath.

Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.

I'm the one who called the police too, he says.

What?

That's why the police took Vincent in, he says. I told them I saw Vincent near Dickinson when Bill was shot.

You lied to them.

I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again.

Is this it? Gil says.

The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.

He's still at the police station, Paul says, almost to himself. The lights are off.

Jesus, Paul, I say. How do even you know the blueprint is here?

It's the only other place he could've hidden it.

Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.

Damn it. Gil brings the Saab to a halt and gets out. Paul!

The wind hisses around the door as he opens it, muffling his words. I can see Paul mouth something to us, pointing at the house. He begins hiking toward it in the snow.

Paul… I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper.

A light in the neighboring house comes on, but Paul pays no attention. He paces up to Taft's front porch and puts his ear to the door, gently rapping.

The wind whips through the columns of the facade, licking puffs of snow from the eaves. The window next door goes black. When Paul gets no answer, he tries to turn the knob, but the lock holds fast.

What do we do? Gil says, beside him.

Paul knocks again, then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and cradles one into the slot. Putting a shoulder into the wood, he sweeps the door forward. Hinges squeal.

We can't do this, I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

But Paul is already inside, scanning the first floor. Without a word, he's deep into the house.

Vincent? comes his voice, feeling out the darkness. Vincent, are you here?

The words become distant. I hear feet on a staircase, then nothing.

Where'd he go? Gil says, moving toward me.

There is an odd odor in here, distant but strong. The wind comes at our backs, snapping our jackets, making the fingers of Gil's hair twist in the up-draft. I turn and shut the door behind us. Gil's cell phone begins to ring.

I flip a wall switch, but the room stays dark. My eyes are beginning to adjust. Taft's dining room is in front of me, baroque furniture and dark walls and claw-legged chairs. At the far end is the foot of a staircase.

Gil's phone rings again. He is behind me, calling out Paul's name. The odor intensifies. Three objects sit in a tangle on the credenza by the staircase. A tattered billfold, a set of keys, a pair of eyeglasses. Suddenly everything comes into focus.

I turn back. Answer the phone.

By the time he reaches into his pocket, I'm already climbing the stairs.

Katie…? I can hear him say.

Everything is overlapping shadows. The staircase seems fractured, like darkness through a prism. Gil's voice rises.

What? Jesus…

Then he's racing up the stairs, pushing at my back, barking at me to hurry, telling me what I already know.

Taft's not at the police station. They released him more than an hour ago.

We reach the landing just in time to hear Paul screaming. Gil is pressing me forward, forcing me up toward the sound. Like the shadow of a wave at the moment before impact, it settles over me that we are too late, that it has already happened. Gil pushes past me, moving down a corridor to the right, and I'm aware of myself in flashes, in the gaps between instincts. My legs are in motion. Time is slowing; the world is cycling in a lower gear.

Oh God, Paul moans. Help me.

The walls of the bedroom are shot with moonlight. Paul's voice comes from the bathroom. The smell is here, of fireworks and cap guns, of everything out of place. There is blood on the walls. In the tub is a body. Paul is on his knees, bent over the porcelain rim. Taft is dead.

Gil stumbles out of the room, but my eyes trip over the sight. Taft lies on his back in the basin, his gut flattened on top of him. There is a gunshot in his chest, and another between his eyes, with a well of blood still seeping across his forehead. When Paul extends a trembling arm, I feel the sudden urge to laugh. The sensation comes, then fades. I feel sleepy, almost drunk.

Gil is calling the police. An emergency, he says. On Olden Street. At the Institute.

His voice is loud against the silence. Paul mumbles the house number, and Gil echoes it into the phone.

Hurry.

Suddenly Paul raises himself from the floor. We need to get out of here.

What?

My senses are returning. I put a hand on Paul's shoulder, but he darts into the bedroom, looking everywhere-the space beneath the bed, the crack between the doors of Taft's closet, odd slats in tall bookshelves.

It's not here… he says. Then he turns, struck by something else. The map, he blurts. Where's my map?

Gil looks at me as if this is it, the sign that Paul has lost touch.

In the lockbox at Ivy, he says, taking Paul by the arm. Where we put it.

But Paul shakes him off and begins toward the stairs on his own. In the far distance there comes the sound of sirens.

We can't leave, I call out.

Gil glances at me, but follows him. The sirens are closer now-blocks away, but rising. Outside, through the window, the hills are the color of metal. In a church somewhere, it is Easter.

I lied to the police about Vincent, Paul cries back. I can't be here when they find him.

I follow them out the front door, pushing toward the Saab, Gil fires the engine, flooding it with gas, and the car roars in neutral, loud enough to bring on the lights in the house next door. Throwing the gearshift into first, he guns the engine again. When the tires catch asphalt, the car rockets into motion. Just as Gil turns onto an adjoining road, the first patrol car arrives at the opposite end of the street. We watch as it comes to a stop in front of Taft's house.

Where are we going? Gil says, glancing at Paul in the rearview mirror.

Ivy, he says.