I DECIDE TO give Margo and Lamont a few minutes alone. I step out of the vault and wander back down the hall into the lab. Nobody there. Fletcher didn’t just leave the room. He left the building. The front door is half open.

I walk slowly around the lab table. I pick up one of Fletcher’s notebooks and start leafing through it. It’s filled with page after page of calculations and diagrams in really bad handwriting. There’s a small table with a coffee machine in one corner. In the opposite corner there’s a file cabinet. Just like the one in Poole’s office. Same vintage brand. Tempting.

I ruffle through the cords and papers on the table. I see a flash of metal.

The key ring! Fletcher must have dropped it when he came back to get the controller. I scoop up the ring and walk over to the cabinet. But I can tell right away that none of the keys is small enough to fit into the lock.

I find the next best thing—a paper clip. A nice thick one. I bend the clip open so that one end sticks out like a probe. I stick it into the lock and wiggle it back and forth, up and down. Then it snaps off.

“Dammit!”

I pat my pockets. I pull out a pencil stub, a few pennies, and then—a metal pin for my scooter! I always carry a spare in case a wheel comes loose. I use the end of the scooter pin to pry out the broken paper clip. Then I stick the pin into the lock and give it a twist.

I feel a little resistance, then a click. I hold the pin in place with one hand and give the file drawer a tug with the other. Success! The drawer rolls open. Inside, there are more notebooks and a stack of manila folders with handwritten labels: CONTRACTS. FORMULAS. DESIGN. SECURITY. Most of the files are all bent and frayed. But there’s one that stands out. Like it hadn’t been touched in a very long time. The label says PROCEDURES.

I pull the folder out. It’s filled with with medical notes and anatomical diagrams, like a hospital chart. I flip through the pages. I recognize plans for the hatch and the slide-out table. There are lots of electrical symbols and weird chemical formulas. And here’s the design for the controller. Pretty cool.

The last sheet in the folder catches my eye because it has the initials “M.L.” at the top. It doesn’t take a famous detective to guess whose initials they are. I look down the sheet. It’s an intake form. “September 6, 1937. Female. Age mid-20s. Height 5'5". Weight 115 lbs. Comatose. Ingestion of toxin / unknown origin. +/- 1 hr.”

I flip through to the last page, where I see a diagram of a female body in a black line drawing. There are notes all over it. Hard to read. I turn the page sideways to read what they’re about.

Oh my God.

“Maddy!” Lamont’s calling from the back room. “Where are you?”

I fold the paper, slide it into my pocket, and close the drawer.

“Coming!”

Take it slow, I’m thinking. Lamont is back. Now Margo is back. Count your blessings. That’s two medical miracles in a row. And maybe the notes were wrong or mixed up. I should probably put what I just read out of my mind.

Because what it said is not possible.