As the plainclothesman headed to the door, he paused to leer at Lionel. “Your next story, you should use The Man in the Iron Mask,” he said.

Chapter 81

Chapter 81

BEHIND HER, MORE and more people swarmed toward the arcade, shoving one another in their efforts to see…something. Pin cursed. Why had her mother warned her off? Now she’d missed whatever was happening, and there was no point trying to fight her way back.

She headed for the path by Hell Gate. A line snaked around the dark-ride pavilion, petering out where people stumbled laughing from the boats. In the ticket booth, Larry was handing out wooden tokens as fast as he could. She walked by, her eyes half closed, trying to recapture the moment when Glory had kissed her. Her longing grew so intense she felt like she might pass out.

If she could only tell someone how she felt—not just Glory, anyone—that might help, like when you pierce a balloon to let the air out. Even Henry had a friend in Willhie. She had no one, other than Henry, and how could she trust someone who might have killed her sister? How could she even think about it?

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Your sister’s the one who’s dead.

She heard the cuckoo clock chime and counted its notes. Still too early for Max, probably. She glanced up at the knoll, from where she’d seen the killer enter Hell Gate, let her gaze drop to the stand of poplars where she’d first met Henry, not even two days ago. It felt like centuries. What if she hadn’t met him? Would she feel worse now, or better?

Her head ached from the heat, the heavy air fizzing like the electrical lights in the Ten-in-One. She touched the shiv in her pocket, its blade warm as her own skin, and wandered toward the poplar grove. Something moved in the green shadows, and she felt a stir of excitement: Henry had returned! But it was only a squirrel scurrying in the grass.

Still, she could pretend it felt cooler here. The leaves rippled in the hot wind and touched her bare arms as she slipped between the trees. Something caught her eye in the long grass, a scrap of trash or lost handkerchief. She stooped to see what it was.

A rock—two rocks, one atop the other—had been placed on a square of cardboard as big as her two hands. She looked around to see if anyone was watching her, then picked up the cardboard. It was stained and wrinkled, the torn flap of a carton, she guessed, folded to form a makeshift envelope.

Nothing was written on the outside, but as she carefully unfolded it, a smaller piece of cardboard fell out. White shirt cardboard, cut into a tidy square. One side was blank. She turned it over.