Chapter 74
The math was simple: with three doors, the probability of the car being behind the initial door that you choose is one-third.
The probability of it being behind one of the other two doors is two-thirds.
When, in the show, Monty Hall opens one door, one of the two you didn’t select, revealing a goat, the odds change.
The door that you selected still has a one-third chance of containing the car.
The remaining door, however, has a two-thirds chance.
From a statistical perspective, you should always change doors when Monty asks. But this wasn’t a game show, and they weren’t talking about goats and cars.
They were talking about people.
“I don’t want to choose,” Ivy said.
“If you don’t choose, they all die.” The voice sounded almost bored now. Repeating the same thing over and over again.
“I’m not picking. I’m not.”
“Then you die.”
“Why the fuck are you doing this?”
“Because of twenty-seven minutes!”
Twenty-seven minutes? What the hell was he talking about?
Ivy thought of Dr. Moorehead and the note. The riddle.
“Twenty-seven minutes . . . the time that I had to save Dr. Moorehead.”
“Twenty-seven minutes,” the voice repeated, calm now, “was also the amount of time you spent in this house before calling 911.”
Ivy squinted. Her brain worked.
“I know he called you, Ivy—I managed to get a record of your cell logs. Eugene called you at 9:52 p.m. Your cell phone signal pinged six miles away. Credit card statements confirm that you paid for your meal at Osaka’s Sushi at 9:58 p.m. There was no traffic at that hour.
Even if you were driving slowly, which I doubt you were, the drive takes at most twelve minutes.
That brings us to 10:10. Except you didn’t place the 911 call until 10:37. Twenty-seven minutes, Ivy!”
She was again transported back to that night. First the call, her father’s ominous message. Then arriving on the scene, running into the burning building. Finding both men inside, charred, burnt. Ivy fought back tears.
“I know what you did.”
No—no you don’t. You have no idea.
It cost me everything. My mom. My dad.
“You took Eugene’s laptop. Your father texted mine, told him that they were going to settle it once and for all. Eugene said he was going to bring his laptop. Except it wasn’t here!”
Ivy didn’t know if the voice modulator malfunctioned or if the man had shut it off on purpose, but the voice came through crystal clear when he’d shouted that last sentence. And of course, Ivy recognized it immediately. Didn’t have to, though; “your father texted mine” was a dead giveaway.
“Tristan?”
A short pause. Accidental or not, Tristan didn’t bother turning the voice modulator back on.
“Where is your father’s laptop?”
“I don’t—I don’t know!”
“Twenty-seven minutes, Ivy!” the man screamed. “Where is Eugene’s laptop?”
“I don’t know! I swear, I don’t know!”
“What were you doing in the house for twenty-seven minutes!”
Ivy refused to let her mind go back there.
“Please! Let the detective go.”
“Tell me where the laptop is and I’ll let you all go. Or you can choose. Up to you.”
“I’m a victim, too. My dad—”
“My dad is dead!”
“So is mine!”
“It’s not the same.”
It wasn’t. But not in the way that Tristan thought.
Now, Ivy was transported back to three years ago. It was impossible to stop herself. The telephone call.
“We did it, Ivy. We did it! We solved the Riemann hypothesis. Steve has half on his laptop, I have half on mine. We’re supposed to meet up, but .
. . I don’t trust him. He wants to go private, sell it to the highest bidder.
I can’t let him do that. If anything happens to me, you need to get the laptops. ”
Tristan’s voice shattered the reverie.
“I see you, Ivy. You have the laptop.”
Ivy’s eyes darted from Darnell, still unconscious but breathing, his thick chest rhythmically rising and falling, to the corners of the room.
Focused on the camera. Of course, he was watching. He was always watching. He’d been watching her in Dr. Moorehead’s office and he was watching her now.
“Please, Tristan, just let the cop go. Let all of us go. I don’t know where the laptop is. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Pick a door.”
“Tristan—”
“Pick a door!”
Ivy winced.
“I’m going to give you twenty-seven seconds—” Tristan paused. In the background, over the speaker, Ivy heard what sounded like an alarm. A sharp, piercing beep. Repeated. “Looks like the rules have changed, Ivy.”
A resounding click and the two remaining doors opened.
Behind door number one: a man in a peach-colored face mask. Seated. Not moving.
Behind door number three: Abby Granger. Eyes wide, mouth taped.
“No!” Ivy screamed. “I switch doors! I want three! Please, I—”
With the alarm still going off and her own shouts echoing off the enclosed space, Abby didn’t hear the door open behind her.
Didn’t hear Tristan raise the thick burlap sack and yank it down over her head.
She did, however, hear the hiss of hydrogen sulfide gas being released.