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Another two taps.
“How was she as a nurse?” Detective Vick shakes his head. “Sorry. There’s no way for you to answer that.”
“There is.” To Lenora, I say, “You feel like typing your answers?”
Before she can tap a response, I wheel Lenora to the desk and insert a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. I place her left hand on the keys and turn to Detective Vick.
“She can’t type very fast, so try to ask her things that only require short answers.”
“Uh, sure.” The detective rubs his hands together, uncertain. I can only assume this is the first time he’s questioned someone via typewriter. “Lenora, when was the last time you saw Mary?”
Lenora blinks, confused.
“He wants you to type your answer,” I say, gently prodding her.
Instead of typing, Lenora stares at the typewriter as if she’s never seen one before. She lifts her hand, hovering it uncertainly over the keys before dropping it back down. The force of the landing hits a key hard enough to slap a single, faint letter onto the blank page.
h
“Do you need my help?” I ask her.
Simmering with impatience, Detective Vick says, “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
I look to Lenora. Normally so expressive, her face has taken on a frustrating blankness. It dawns on me that this could be too much forher. Mary’s death. The detective’s presence. All his questions. I kneel next to her, put my hand over hers, and say, “Are you too upset about Mary to type?”
Beneath my palm, Lenora curls her hand into a fist and raps the keyboard once.
“Then why aren’t you doing it?”
“Do you even know how to type?” Detective Vick asks her.
Again, Lenora gives another single rap.
Outside, a gust of wind slams against the mansion, making the whole room—including those of us in it—shudder. Drops of rain smack the windows as the wind howls.
The storm has arrived.
With it comes another shudder. One only I can feel. An internal shimmy brought on by a single realization.
Lenora is pretending.
Detective Vick kneels on the other side of her wheelchair. He shoots me an annoyed look and asks Lenora, “Just to be clear, Miss McDeere is lying about you being able to type?”
This time, Lenora raises her hand and taps the typewriter twice.
My stomach drops. “She can,” I say. “I swear.”
I give Lenora a desperate stare, as if she can confirm what I just said any other way besides actually pressing one of the typewriter keys. But she can’t. And she won’t. For reasons I don’t understand.
The storm’s at full force now. Water pours down the windowpanes, casting undulating patterns on the bedroom floor. I watch them, furious at Lenora for making me look like a liar, wondering why she’s doing it, and trying to think of some way to prove I’m right. That’s when it hits me.
“We typed this morning,” I say. “Before I found Mary. The page is right here on the desk.”
I search the desk for the page I know was still in the typewriter when I went downstairs to call Mr. Gurlain. I even remember the wordsthat had been typed on it—Lenora telling me her dead sister was in this room.
But the page isn’t on the desk.