Before I clicked the tiny flashlight off, I looked around the room. In the startled dimness of the single beam, I saw a shelf that rose all the way to the ceiling, stacked with engraved and sculpted stones. I didn’t know enough about antiquities to recognize what they were. But it was clear they had originated from centuries ago, made and touched by people whose bones had long since turned to dust. There was a crate by the wall, a shipping label in plastic. I knelt to read the return address: 41 Genevieve Street in London.

25

SHIVERING, I GRABBED THE SHELF and pulled myself to standing, slowly, stumbling, the drug sludging my muscles. My hands probed the edges of the structure, reaching just higher than my head before my fingers touched open air. About six feet high. I jiggled the metal. Sturdy but loose. If I climbed it, I could send the whole thing toppling down. Exhaustion spread through me again, and I fought it off by blinking hard and flexing my hands.

First, I would need some kind of hammer. When I ascended the shelf, it might only be once, given my strength, and I needed a tool up there to smash the ceiling. I felt among the objects. Gravestones, tablets. I couldn’t tell what any one was. The darkness, the drug, and the freezing air had muted shape and recognition. I needed something heavy. But not so heavy that I couldn’t swing it. Not so light that it wouldn’t break drywall.

My fingers closed on a smooth oblong with some kind of pointy tip. Whatever it was, I hoped it was solid. I tapped it experimentally on the wooden floor.

The pinging made Ray stir, but when I crawled over and checked him, he was motionless, his flesh clammy. “I’m going to try now,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

I shoved myself upright, my head spinning, and carried my hammer to the shelf, setting it down on the top. My huffing breaths filled the silence of the room as I strained up my makeshift ladder. One shelf. Two shelves. The structure swayed. I clung halfway, trying not to imagine where the shelf and its contents would fall, if they fell.

A noise came from outside the room. A whooshing sound, like water through pipes.

Was someone else inside the Westing?

Pearson? Hal? Could they have come back to check on the installation?

Alicia?

I shouted for help. I almost lost my perch and clambered higher, buoyed by the thought of rescue. By the time I reached the top of the shelf, my voice was hoarse and there were no answering footsteps. Nothing from Ray, either.

The dizziness hit. Not like a spinning feeling, but like a tide, black and full. My stomach heaved, and I nearly lost my balance. My scalp brushed the ceiling. I clung, crouched, waiting for the sensation to pass.