"So that's it,then?" Bex asked. "That's everything your mom and Mr. Solomon said?Verbatim?"

Macey  and  I   looked  at each other,   recalling  the conversation we'd overheard and the story we'd justtold. Then we both nodded and said, "Verbatim."

At that moment, the entiresophomore class was probably enjoying our last homework-free night for a verylong time (rumor had it Tina Walters was organizing a Jason Bourne-athon), butthe four of us stayed in that tower room, freezing our you-know-whats off,listening for the creaking hinges of the heavy oak door at the base of thestairs that would warn us if we were no longer alone.

"I can't believeit," Liz said as she continued to walk back and forth—maybe to keep warm, but probably because…well…Liz hasalways been a pacer. (And we've got the worn spots on our bedroom floor toprove it.)

"Cam," Liz asked,"are you sure the East Wing couldn't have been contaminated byfumes from the chem labs?"

"Of course she'ssure," Bex said with a sigh.

"But are you absolutely,positively, one hundred-percent sure ?" Liz asked again. After all, as theyoungest person ever published in Scientific American, Liz kind of likesthings verified, cross-referenced, and proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"Cam," Bex said,turning to me, "how many ventilation shafts are there in thekitchen?"

"Fourteen—unless you're counting the pantry. Are you countingthe pantry?" I asked, which must have been enough to prove my expertise,because Macey rolled her eyes and sank to the floor beside me. "She'ssure."

In the dim light of the coldroom I could see snowflakes swirl in the wind outside, blowing from the mansion'sroof (or … well…the parts of the roof that aren't protected with electrifiedsecurity shingles). But inside, the four of us were quiet and still.