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Sam let out a long exhale. “Nah. I’m no snitch. But I really wish you’d tell the professor and Miss Walker about what you can do.”
“Yeah. Well,” Theta said sadly. “We all wish for something, don’t we?”
CHASING GHOSTS
Before heading out, Evie paused at Will’s office door. The light from his lamp bled under the crack, along with the sound of his old Victrola playing a classical record, and Evie could imagine Will staying up half the night, reading spooky ghost reports in the deepening gloom while a Chopin nocturne kept him company.
Evie knocked and poked her head in. “Mind if I come in?”
“Make yourself at home.”
“Same old Creepy Crawly,” Evie said, taking in the mess of papers and books and odd supernatural knickknacks. She picked up a book from the edge of Will’s desk and was surprised to discover it wasn’t some macabre ghost tome but Dickens. “A Tale of Two Cities?”
Will managed a fond smile. “That happens to be my favorite book.”
Evie made a face. “It’s no one’s favorite book.”
“It’s mine,” Will said on a laugh. “It reminds us that even in the midst of chaos and terror, there is the capacity for change. For a new and better society. For selflessness. I admire Sydney Carton tremendously.”
“Because you fancy yourself a hero?” Evie said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so sneering.
Will’s smile vanished. “Because I know that I’m not.”
Already, the conversation was making Evie uncomfortable. She lifted the book’s cover. The first page was inscribed, To Will with love from Rotke, Christmas 1916.
Will cleared his throat. “Do you mind?”
Evie snapped the book shut and returned it to its spot before resuming her slow circle of the room. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you remember a few weeks ago I had an incident on my radio show?”
“I don’t listen to the radio much,” Will said.
Evie stared in disbelief. “How can you not listen to the radio, Uncle Will? It’s 1927! Everyone listens to the radio. It’s how we live.”
Will fought another smile. “I’m as much of an artifact as everything in here. But I’m guessing you had something else to tell me.”
For the past few months, Evie had gotten used to thinking of Will as the enemy. But he was family, too. And Will knew things. Things that could be helpful. She was just going to have to risk trusting him a little bit.
“A curious thing happened,” Evie said, finally coming to rest in a button-back leather club chair that she wished she could steal for her own room at the Winthrop. “A fellow named Bob Bateman came on the show and asked me to read his friend’s comb. He said his friend had died in the war. While I was under, I did see soldiers. They were on a train. I saw the soldier who tried to shoot me—Luther Clayton? He wasn’t much older than I am now. He still had his legs and his mind was unbroken. And then I saw James on that train. Will, that comb belonged to James.”
“You’re sure?” Will asked, his face grave.
“Positive.”
Her uncle reached for his ever-present cigarette case, selecting one from inside its sardine-like hold and tamping the end against the top of his desk till the loose tobacco conformed. “How did this Bateman fellow get James’s comb?”
“Here’s where it gets stranger. I chased Bob Bateman down the street and demanded to know where he’d gotten the comb. He told me he’d been paid to say that by some men in dark suits.”
“That’s not particularly helpful. You might as well say, ‘I was paid by a man with a mustache,’” Will said, reaching for his lighter.
“I know.” Evie pushed the words out on a heavy sigh. She snapped her fingers. “Adams! That was the man’s name.”
Will fumbled with his cigarette lighter. He raked his thumb against the little wheel until the flame caught.
“Does that name mean something to you? Do you know who that is?” Evie asked.
“No.” Will drew on his cigarette.
Evie leaned into the chair, letting its comfort cradle her. “The comb showed me the soldiers playing a guessing game with cards. James knew the card one of the soldiers held. He knew it was the Ace of Spades without even seeing it.”
