Pure (Book 1, Pure Series) (21 page)

           
"Very good," GM replied.

           
She backed the car down the driveway and zoomed off.

           
Before long, we were pulling up to a big brick wall that surrounded a community named Sherwood Estates.
 
We slipped through the entranceway and glided past stately homes with expansive, manicured lawns.
 
We continued on past the Estates' country club and golf course to a set of even larger homes.

           
GM soon brought the car to a stop.
 
"This should be the place."

           
I looked out at the large, imposing house before us.

           
"Wow," I said.

           
"Would you like me to go in with you this time?" GM asked.

           
"No thanks.
 
I'll be quick.
 
I promise."

           
I got out of the car and stood for just a moment, staring down the long paved drive at the front of the monumental house.
 
I glanced at the equally impressive houses on either side of it.
 
Truthfully, I wouldn't have minded if GM had come with me, but I knew I couldn't let her find out what I was up to.

           
I walked up the drive to the front door and took a deep breath.
 
Thanks to the mysterious paper, I knew Mr. Neverov was out of town, but I hoped maybe he didn't live alone, and I would be able to learn something helpful.

           
I reached for the big brass knocker on the door and gave it a few short raps.
 
The sound was much louder than I had expected, and I couldn't help wincing.

           
Nothing happened, and after a moment, I knocked again.

           
As before, nothing happened.
 
I began to look around for signs that someone might be home.
 
As I glanced around the front of the imposing house, I noticed very faint trails of black smoke.
 
I squinted at the smoke trails.
 
They were hard to see, but they were definitely there – writhing in the air and forming bizarre and grotesque shapes.
 
The effect was strangely hypnotic.

           
I blinked and looked away.
 
I knocked once more.

           
Just as I was starting to think I should give up, the door opened a few inches, and a woman in black-rimmed glasses with her hair in a severe bun looked out at me.

           
"Hi," I said, feeling very unsure of myself.
 
"I'm from Irina's school, and I was wondering—"

           
"If this is about selling Girl Scout cookies," the woman said impatiently, "Mr. Neverov's household already has a source.
 
We certainly don't need another one."

           
The woman withdrew.

           
I held out a hand.
 
"Wait!
 
This isn't about Girl Scout cookies – besides this is the wrong time of year for those anyway.
 
It's about Irina."

           
The woman leaned out again, looking more impatient than ever.
 
"What about Irina?"

           
"I-I'm worried about her.
 
May I come in?"

           
The woman sighed.
 
"Very well."

           
She let me into a highly polished hall and led me past a large, ornate room with immense sofas and fragile-looking curios.

           
I paused to look.

           
"Come along, now," the woman said sharply.
 
"You are not to go in there.
 
The items in that room are too delicate to be handled by children."

           
"But I'm not—"

           
"Come along," the woman said.

           
I followed her dutifully.

           
"I don't have the faintest idea where to put you," the woman muttered as she led me through the expensive-looking house, her heels clicking sharply on the floor.
 
"I'll have to place you somewhere where you can't break anything."

           
Eventually, the woman led me to a room and opened the door.

           
The woman waved a hand.
 
"In you go.
 
Putting you in here isn't ideal, but it's the only place where Mr. Neverov's antiques will be safe from little fingers.
 
This is Mr. Neverov's office.
 
Do not touch anything."

           
I walked into a mostly-bare room with a desk, three chairs, and a row of metal filing cabinets.
 
The lack of decoration in the office was in stark contrast to the rest of the house.

           
The woman turned to go, but then stopped.
 
"I almost forgot.
 
What's your name?
 
There's no point in my talking to Mr. Neverov if I don't have your name."

           
"It's Katie Wickliff.
 
What's your name?
 
In case I need it for some reason?"

           
"I am Ms. Finch.
 
I am Mr. Neverov's executive assistant."
 
The woman started to leave again.

           
"Wait!" I said.
 
"Is Mr. Neverov back then?
 
I'd heard he was out of town."

           
"Mr. Neverov is on vacation," Ms. Finch replied stiffly.

           
"He's on vacation?"
 
I was shocked.

           
Ms. Finch regarded me coldly.
 
"Mr. Neverov is a very busy man and deserves his rest.
 
His coming home will not bring Irina back.
 
He is in constant contact with the police, and they keep him apprised of each new development."

           
"So there have been developments?" I said.

           
"I am going to call Mr. Neverov and see if he wishes to speak with you about his daughter.
 
And that is all I am going to tell you," Ms. Finch replied sternly.
 
"As I said, do not touch a thing while I am gone."

           
Ms. Finch left the room, closing the door behind her.

           
I had a feeling that Mr. Neverov would refuse to speak to me.
 
I looked around the room.
 
There were no papers or other kinds of evidence in sight.
 
I had only a few minutes at most if I wanted to look around.

           
I knew I probably shouldn't, but I hurried to the desk and began opening drawers.
 
The first two contained labeled files, which I rifled through quickly.

           
There was nothing about Irina in any of the files.

           
In the third drawer, I found a clear plastic bag filled with white cloth.
 
I opened the bag and pulled it out.
 
I realized I was holding the white scarf Irina had been wearing the last time I'd seen her.
 
There were rust-colored stains on it.
 
I had a terrible feeling I was looking at dried blood.

           
I quickly pushed the scarf back in the bag and set it on the desk, and then I turned back to the drawer.
 
A folder and two long, flat books sat in the bottom.
 
The folder was labeled 'Irina,' and I pulled it out and flipped it open.

           
Inside were notes written in a small, neat hand.
 
At the top of each sheet was written the heading 'From discussion with the police.'
 
I scanned each one as quickly as possible.
 
The first one documented the break-in at the school from the preceding Saturday night and the theft of the records and yearbooks.
 
The next sheet documented the disappearance of Mr. Del Gatto, the one after that, James, and the one after that, Irina herself.
 
I read over Irina sheet hurriedly.

           
A cleaning woman had heard a crash, the back door had been pulled off its hinges, and Irina had not been seen after that. The door to her bedroom had also been damaged and her scarf had been found on the back lawn.

           
There were no further notes.
 
I glanced at the two long books.
 
They were yearbooks from our freshman and sophomore years.

           
I frowned as I looked at the yearbooks.
 
I had forgotten about the break-in at the school.
 
Was the theft of the records and yearbooks related to the disappearance of the school's students and teachers?

           
I heard Ms. Finch's heels clicking down the hall toward me, and I quickly pushed everything back into the drawer and shut it.

           
I had just made it to the other side of the desk when Ms. Finch entered the room.

           
Ms. Finch raked suspicious eyes over me, and then cast about the office, looking for signs of disorder.
 
Apparently, she didn't find anything to comment on.

           
"I was unable to reach Mr. Neverov," Ms. Finch stated flatly.
 
"Since I cannot confirm that you are, in fact, a friend of Irina's, you are not entitled to receive any news about her.
 
I will escort you out."

           
Ms. Finch twitched her hand in an impatient gesture, and I hurried out of the office.

           
Ms. Finch marched me through the house, her heels clacking sharply on the floor, making me feel as if I were a prisoner being taken to a new cell.

           
I was vastly relieved when we reached the front door, and I was shunted out.

           
I hurried back to the car.

           
"How was it?" GM asked.

           
"I didn't really get to speak to anybody," I replied, pulling my seatbelt on.
 
"Irina's father is away on vacation."

           
"On vacation?" GM looked surprised.
 
"Where?"

           
"I don't know," I said.
 
"GM, you'd come back from a vacation if I went missing, wouldn't you?"

           
GM waved the question off.
 
"Don't be silly, Solnyshko.
 
I wouldn't go anywhere without you."

           
I couldn't help feeling a rush of affection for GM.

           
"Where to next?" GM asked.

           
"Mr. Del Gatto's neighbor, Mrs. Hannity," I replied, feeling a pang of guilt.
 
I actually expected this one to be the most difficult – I wasn't really going to talk to Mrs. Hannity, though I would ask her a few questions.
 
Instead, I was going to use the visit as a cover to search the Old Grove where Mr. Hightower's body was found.
 
I knew GM would never take me over there.

           
I felt terrible about what I was about to do – but I had to do it.

           
"And where is Mr. Del Gatto's neighbor, Mrs. Hannity?" GM asked, starting up the car.

           
"She lives in those townhouses not too far from the Old Grove," I said.
 
I gave her the address.

           
GM gave me a strange look as she put the car into gear.
 
"You are certainly doing a lot of consoling, Solnyshko, if you are consoling a teacher's neighbor."

           
I winced.
 
GM was right to wonder what was going on.

           
I smiled at her weakly.
 
"It's as much for me as it is for them."

           
"I understand," GM said.
 
"These are troubled times.
 
You must do what you can to affirm your belief in human goodness."

           
I felt even worse.

           
GM drove over to the townhouses quickly.
 
I was able to pick out Mr. Del Gatto's place even before we stopped in front of it.
 
I had seen his house last year on Mischief Night – the night before Halloween when pranksters were known to go out.
 
That night I had gone to the movies with Branden and Charisse.
 
Afterward, Branden had heard that a senior with a grudge against Mr. Del Gatto had covered the teacher's house with toilet paper, and he had dragged Charisse and me out to see it.

           
We had walked through the darkness to find it, and find it we did, all wrapped in toilet paper that stood out pale and ghostly in the night.
 
Branden had been overcome with laughter.

           
Mr. Del Gatto's house had been attached to its neighbor, and I remembered that the neighbor's part of the house had received the toilet paper treatment also.
 
I recalled seeing plastic sheep that grazed peacefully in the neighbor's little patch of garden in the front, seemingly blissfully unaware of the assault on their home.