Chapter 20
As I crouch by the corner of the construction fence, trying to avoid the rampant dog pee, I wonder what Hannah would think
of Rodney O’Malley. After all, isn’t “wear a hat” just a version of “act confident”? I’ll run it by her later, if this works
out and it’s not a massively embarrassing failure. Which it could—
“NOW!” Marlowe whispers in my ear as she shoves me through the hole and onto the construction site.
She gives me so much momentum, it’s a miracle that I manage to stay on my feet, especially when I hit the patch of gravel
and have to wave my arms around to keep my balance. Thank goodness the mesh on the chain link keeps me hidden in here—that
graceful move would have blown my cover immediately.
Like most of the kids, Marlowe is well-acquainted with the empty lot, and she told me what to expect. At first glance, there’s
not much except dirt and gravel, some concrete chunks, a few stray metal rods, and a giant ladder hooked over the edge of
what looks to be a bottomless pit. No thank you, bottomless pit.
And then, across the lot, I see what she sent me in here for.
A lone hard hat, abandoned over by a mound of dirt.
I grab it, and with the hard hat plus my crossing guard vest, I do actually get a burst of confidence. I slip back through
the fence onto the sidewalk, where I stand up casually, like I was always there, just doing some kind of typical . . . gas
business. Marlowe’s across the street now—having made sure the coast was clear for me to go in and get the hat, she’s now
keeping an eye on the outside of the house, so she can alert me if there are any developments while I am—fingers crossed—inside.
We nod at each other.
Then I take a deep breath and try to manifest Big Gas Company Energy.
I adjust the hard hat with a jaunty tap, fix my eyes on the house, and business-walk my way toward the front door.
And holy hell, it works—I breeze right past the literal gas company truck, the fire truck, and the police car, and no one even looks at me.
This Rodney guy knows what he’s talking about—I should probably check out the rest of his videos, or at least scrub through
a couple of them.
I give Marlowe our agreed-upon sign—a knock on the hard hat—as I slip inside the house.
Apparently, what I’m looking for is an elaborate charging station—a sculpture? a statue?—in Claudia’s bedroom upstairs. Marlowe
says I can’t miss it. Turns out Claudia was some kind of artist? I feel a pit in my stomach at the fact that I didn’t know
this, and now I’ll never get to ask her about it.
I slip through the front room of the bungalow, and yeah, wow, the gas smell is strong. Better make this quick.
No one seems to be around, so I take the creaky stairs two at a time, down the burnt umber carpeted hallway with its wood paneling and into the bedroom with the rose comforter.
Okay. There’s a bedside table with a lamp and a digital clock.
A long low dresser with a mirror. A closet, a floor lamp, and a human-size sculpture of . . .
Is that Link from The Legend of Zelda?
All grown up and ready to party?
Shirtless with rippling abs?
This is Claudia’s sculpture?
Wow. Way to go, Claud.
I lift the bottom of my shirt to cover my nose and mouth. I must already be feeling a bit dizzy and out of it because I swear
this Link looks very familiar. I can’t place it, but I know that face and bod, and not from my days of playing the game, because
canon Link is a scrawny kid.
So where’s the phone?
I check Link’s hands; one is resting on his hip and the other looks like it’s blowing a kiss. No phone. It’s not on his trademark
hat or his beefy shoulders, so I walk all the way around and—wow—she’s really lovingly crafted his ass, but there’s no phone in there either. I’m starting to doubt myself, when I suddenly see it: a seam
running along the edge of his abs. I press on his six-pack and the abs pop open and Boom.
Claudia’s phone.
Fully charged, baby.
I grab it, tuck it in my pocket, and run down the stairs.
Where I slam right into a giant fireman cosplaying as a friggin’ mountain.
He frowns. “What the hell are you doing?”
Uh-oh.
“I—”
“How many times do we have to tell you guys it’s not safe until we find the source of the leak? You’d really think the gas company would know that.”
Right. Gas company. That’s me!
“Sorry, sorry, I—got here late, didn’t get the memo. Leaving now!”
I try to skirt around him but he steps in front of me again. My heart is pounding so hard it has got to be visible through
my shirt.
“Hey, tell your guys it’s not the oven or the furnace or the meter connections. Gotta be the line under the house.” He shakes
his head. “Good thing you turned the gas off for the street. Could’ve been way, way worse.”
“Right,” I say. “Roger that.”
He looks at me weird but steps aside so I can leave.
The line under the house? What does that mean? It’s not something I’ve ever thought before—but man I wish I understood utilities better.
I get outside and glance next door at the construction site. Marlowe mentioned safety issues there. Was it gas-related safety issues? It really seems like there’s some connection here—the construction site, Claudia not selling her house,
her death by gas, Cran’s death and evil Tond and the Funeral Deep Throat.
My head is spinning, and not just from sucking in gas.
As I dizzily make my way back to the street, I spot a few gas company guys leaning on the truck. One of them is smoking a
cigarette, which seems ill-advised under the circumstances.
Ugh, I suck at recon. But what else can I do? Confidence, Mo. Think of the hat. Do it for Claudia.
“Hey!” I shout, sauntering over. Their vests are slightly different from mine, but they also look like they don’t give a shit.
I thrust a thumb back at the house. “Big fella in there told me the leak is coming from the line under the house.”
One of them snorts. “Yeah, no shit.”
I lift my hard hat and wipe the sweat from my brow dramatically. “Good thing no one was working on that parking garage when
this happened, huh? Could’ve been way, way worse. Remind me why that is?”
The three of them look at me for the first time. There is an extremely awkward pause.
“What’s up,” I say.
“I’m new,” I say.
“Welp,” I say.
The smoker takes a long drag.
“They stopped construction because of the gas line.” He shrugs. “But they didn’t cover up the hole so maybe something fell
in there, nicked the pipe. Or maybe a rat chewed on it. Bam. Lady died two, tree hours later.”
“Right,” the second guy snorts. “A rat fell into the hole, bounced all the way under the house, chewed a hole in the pipe,
and then the wind blew the gas right into the old lady’s window. This jagoff’s a friggin’ Einstein.”
“Yeah or it was your wife, cuz she’s tired of chewing on your pipe, heyo!” the third guy says, high-fiving the second.
“What did I tell you?” the smoker shouts, flicking his cigarette. “What did I fuggin’ say?”
“Great, yep, awesome, thanks, guys,” I say and slip away while they yell and poke index fingers into each other’s chests.
It wasn’t a rat. Or a rock. Or, uh, that guy’s wife. Somehow, someone messed with Claudia’s gas pipes and killed her on purpose.
No, not someone.
Tond.
And whoever his funeral buddy was.
Which I’m about to find out.
I subtly hold the phone up, and from down the block, Marlowe gives me an approving nod.
In short order, Marlowe convinces me we need to look at the doorbell footage on a big screen at her school’s media center.
“We need to see all the details,” she calls, already halfway to the school. “High-def!” I toss the hard hat over the fence
where it belongs and stuff my vest in my back pocket, jogging to catch up, already deeply regretting every decision that has
led me to this moment.
The front desk receptionist clearly adores Marlowe and checks us in with alarmingly few questions. A few minutes later, we’re
in the media center.
“Mrs. Warren.” Marlowe breaks into a huge grin and waves the phone at the media specialist behind the counter. “How’s big
Tony?”
“Oh, he’s doing much better, kiddo, aren’t you sweet for asking.”
Marlowe leans on the counter, lets Mrs. Warren ruffle her pink hair. “Mrs. W, would you be able to patch this phone into the
big screen? I’m testing out some new AI enhancement software on door cams for the ’ship.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Warren says, beaming. She turns to me. “Marlowe is such a smart cookie. This whole independent study tech
internship you gave her is exactly the challenge she needs.”
It would have been really super if Marlowe had given me a tiny heads-up. “Yes,” I say. “The internship . . .”
Marlowe jumps in and saves me. “This is Mo. She’s new at eWolram.”
“Haven’t I seen you before?” The librarian studies me.
“Doubt it,” I say quickly. “I’m usually at . . . corporate headquarters.”
“Just showing her my latest project,” Marlowe explains.
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Warren says, beaming. “I’ll grab the cables!”
As she ducks into an office I turn to Marlowe, who shrugs. “Yeah, yeah, I made up a fake company and gave myself an internship so I could have a little wiggle room during the day.”
“It’s your own name backward.”
“Nobody’s noticed yet.”
I have no idea how Marlowe has convinced this whole school that she’s nothing but a cute and harmless genius, but in this
moment, I’m just grateful.
Returning with the cables, Mrs. Warren patches Claudia’s phone into the big screen at the front of the room and leaves us
to it while she reshelves books. I squat in one of the tiny grade school chairs, preparing myself to watch a snuff video prologue.
Marlowe punches in Claudia’s password—it’s 5465 (L-I-N-K, obviously)—and we start scrolling through approximately a million
doorbell videos with unhelpful file names that don’t resemble dates or times.
It’s mostly just being triggered by birds, squirrels, and the mailman, wearing a pair of short shorts.
“Helloooo, is that package for me,” mutters Mrs. Warren from over in nonfiction. She’s not wrong, and any other time, I’d
be all in, but right now all I feel is a terrible sense of anticipation.
“Hold on,” I say, as another video starts. “Stop here. That’s me.”
“Claudia,” the demented ultra-close-up of me hisses. “It’s me, Mo. I’m sorry, okay? Please—”
Suddenly I have this vague recollection that video-me is about to go into NSFW territory talking about Chris, and I leap up
so fast, I knock the tiny chair backward and grab the phone from Marlowe, who protests.
“We can just fast-forward, nothing to see here . . .” I mute the video to be extra safe, and then speed through my message.
The video shuts off as I walk away.
I hit the next video. It’s still night as the vague outline of a—cat, maybe?—casually strolls across Claudia’s front steps. The camera doesn’t have great night vision.
In the video after that, it’s daytime again. Squirrels chase each other.
More squirrels.
More.
“Hang on,” Marlowe says. “What’s this?”
The time stamp for the next video says 4:46 this morning. The two of us watch the enormous screen as a guy walking a bunch
of big shapes—dogs!—comes up to the front door. It’s super dark, but the closer he gets, the more I can make out his features.
“Who is that?” I say, squinting. “I think I know him.”
“It’s Benny,” Marlowe whispers. “He walks dogs in the neighborhood.”
There’s something in his hand. He ducks down out of frame, and there’s a little creak which I use my powers of deduction to,
uh, deduce is him opening the mail slot in the door. He’s down there for a little while, and then he pops up, looks left,
looks right, rattles the doorknob, and then shoves his shoulder against the door, hard.
End of video.
“Wait,” I say. “I want to see that again.”
Marlowe hits play.
Well, I’ll be damned. Benny was the model for the sexy Link sculpture in Claudia’s bedroom.
And that’s not all.
He was the person I drunkenly recognized in the photo at Dickie’s and then promptly forgot about. My stomach turns.
This makes him the one, oh, let’s call it a LINK, to Claudia and Cran, and thus to Tond.
And to a possible break-in to Claudia’s house around the time of the gas leak.
I feel sick.