Marisha Pessl - Night Film

Of course, he was right. In some ways, I’d known from the beginning where this was all heading: back to The Peak.

“We’ll find a way to break in,” Hopper went on. “And whatever evidence we find, whatever truth we uncover about the Cordovas, however fucked up or however innocent, afterward, all three of us will decide together what to do with the knowledge. We’ll take a vote, and that’ll be it.”

He eyed me with obvious mistrust as he said this, exhaling cigarette smoke in a fast stream.

“But first we find the Spider,” I said.

The following day, we planned to be at Hugo Villarde’s antiques shop, The Broken Door, when it opened at 4:00 P.M.

But in the mayhem of the past week, I’d forgotten one crucial detail: Santa Barbara. I had custody of Sam for the long weekend. Cynthia called me early, telling me that Sam’s new nanny — a woman named Staci Dillon — was going to pick up Sam from school at three-fifteen and bring her straight to my apartment. Cynthia had given the woman a set of my keys, so this wasn’t a problem; I figured she could let herself in and wait with Sam until we returned from the antiques shop.

But the entire morning passed, then the early afternoon, and there was no word from this new nanny. I called her every half-hour, wondering how in the hell my ex-wife decided to trust a woman who ended her name in i. She might as well have hired someone named Ibiza or Tequila. Finally, at two-thirty, Staci called. She’d had an emergency; her seventeen-year-old son had been in a car accident on the Bruckner Expressway. He was okay, but she was coming from a Bronx hospital and running about an hour late. The earliest she could be at my apartment was five. I assured her it was no problem for me to pick Sam up from school. This meant, however, I’d have to bring Sam with me to The Broken Door — an unpleasant prospect.

“Call Cynthia,” said Nora. “She might have a backup nanny.”

“I can’t do that. She’s about to get on a plane.”

“What about some 1-800 emergency nanny service?” asked Hopper, sitting on the couch’s armrest.

“I can’t send a stranger to pick up Sam.”

“Hopper and I can go to the shop,” said Nora.

“And I sit this one out?”

She nodded. It wasn’t a mystery where that suggestion was coming from; she was still stonewalling me after last night’s heated discussion about what was real and what wasn’t.

“Just take her with us,” said Hopper. “If it’s sketchy? Leave.”

I said nothing, thinking it over. We were close to something. I could feel it. If I left such a critical confrontation in the hands of Hopper and Nora, the lead could be blown entirely. Villarde could be tipped off, and he’d slip right through our fingers. But to put Sam in any kind of danger was inconceivable.

“Better decide soon,” said Hopper. “We need to go.”

There was no obvious storefront and no sign, only a closed garage door with peeling red paint.

Dead vines clung to the brick façade in long coils, like coarse strands of hair left on tiles after a shower. The upper floors were derelict, the windows broken or boarded up. The building had once been quite elegant, probably — detailed pilaster Corinthian columns flanked the garage; there was a row of yellow-and-blue stained-glass windows along the ground floor — but now it was all encrusted with dirt and washed out, as if the building had been buried for years and excavated only days ago.

I stepped up to one of the doors, checking to see if there were apartment buzzers, and was amazed to see the name right there —VILLARDE — written neatly by hand in black pen beside a buzzer for the second floor.

“He must live above the shop,” Hopper said quietly, staring up at the building.

The second floor was the only one with windows that weren’t blown out. They were tall and narrow, the glass filthy, though in one I could see long yellow curtains hanging there, and a terra-cotta pot with a small green plant.

“Scott.” Sam was yanking my hand. “Scott.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Who’s that man?”

She was pointing at Hopper.

“I told you, honey. That’s Hopper.”

She squinted up at me. “He’s your friend?”

“Yes.”

She considered this seriously, scrunching her mouth to the side. She then frowned at Nora, who’d moved toward the other door, trying the handle.

“It’s locked,” Nora whispered, shading her eyes as she looked in the window.

Sam was wearing her Spence uniform — white blouse, green-and-blue plaid jumper — though Cynthia had naturally added her Merchant Ivory touches: black coat with puffed sleeves, velvet barrette in her ringlets, black patent-leather shoes. From the moment we’d picked Sam up, she’d been shy and watchful — toward Hopper, in particular. She was also extremely squirmy, shuffling her feet, bouncing on my arm, putting her head way, way back to ask me something — all of which signaled she was coming down off some serious sugar and needed a snack.

“It’s dark inside,” said Nora, still peering in the window.

“What time is it?” I asked.

Hopper checked his phone. “Ten after four.”

“Let’s give it fifteen minutes.”

We left, heading west down the block to Lexington Avenue and into the East Harlem Café. I bought Sam a granola bar, again explaining that we were on a field trip and afterward we’d go to Serendipity 3 for hot-fudge sundaes. She barely paid attention and only pretended to nibble the granola bar, transfixed, instead, by Hopper. I didn’t know what this intense fascination meant until he was standing in line to order another coffee.

“Do you want to watch me jump from there to right there?” Sam asked him, pointing at the floor.

Hopper glanced at me, uncertain. “Uh, sure.”

Sam readied herself, feet together at the edge of one of the orange floor tiles, and then, making sure Hopper was watching attentively, she jumped the length of the café, stopping at the display of coffee mugs.

“That was awesome,” Hopper said.

“Do you want to watch me jump there to there and through there ?”

“Absolutely.”

She took a deep breath, holding it — as if she were about to plunge underwater — and then she toad-hopped, square to square, in the other direction. She stopped and looked back at him.

“Amazing,” Hopper said.

Sam swiped her curls from her eyes and took off hopping again.

If worse came to worst, I could wait with her outside. It was a bustling street with trees and sun, a constant stream of cars. Even if the Spider was a maniacal presence, there was nothing he could do now —not in the light of day.

Ten minutes later, we headed back to The Broken Door. Nothing appeared to have changed. The garage door was still closed, the windows dark.

Hopper tried the narrow wooden door, turning the handle — and this time, it opened. I stepped behind him.

It was a dim warehouse filled with antiques so densely heaped, chairs on top of tables on top of wagon wheels, that the way into the store wasn’t obvious. The door didn’t even open all the way, and the entrance was crowded with a birdbath encrusted with birdshit, a rusty sundial, banged-up steamer trunks, and piled on top of those, an Eisenhower-era radio, faded brass lamps with yellowed shades, stacks of old newspapers.

Hopper and Nora crept through the narrow opening, disappearing inside. I bent down, scooping up Sam in my arms.

“No,” Sam protested. “I’m too big.”