Chapter 8: The Roof

The old Bulfinch & Orme building stood at the end of Federal Street.

It was twelve stories of sooted granite with a hotel group's banner hung over the door.

I had my grandmother's key ring in my bag.

I had taken it from the hall table without asking.

The service stair smelled of dust and wet concrete.

I climbed all twelve flights with the ledger under my arm and my heart in my mouth.

At the top, a steel door opened onto the roof.

Wind hit me.

Boston lay gray and wet below, the harbor flat as slate, the church spires small as pins.

I walked to the east edge, where the parapet came up only to my knees, and looked down.

Twelve floors.

It was a long way to fall by accident.

"Del."

Lucian stood in the doorway behind me, still in last night's clothes.

A bruise was purpling on his jaw where he had hit the study door.

"I read your note," he said. "I came anyway."

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"Where else would you go?"

I turned back to the parapet.

"My father didn't fall," I said. "Tobias says Leopold came down at eleven, alone, and walked past the car without a word."

"I know."

"You know what?"

"Not about the car." He stopped a few feet away. "I knew about the book."

The wind took the words and gave them back to me one at a time.

"You said unread."

"I didn't read it last night. I read it when I was fourteen."

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