Tyrell’s ankle screams in pain when he hits the floor below, and the key ring jingles somewhere in the blackness as it crashes to the ground. He glances up at the hole in the ceiling. Is she still there? Will she come after me?
Tyrell stands and limps past the stacked cabinet and chair to the open, moonlit window. He slides down the pipe to the ground and bolts around the building—right into a police officer.
“Got him!” the officer shouts. She grabs his coat and pulls him to the front of the factory. He squints in the light that glares from the squad car parked across the footbridge at the end of the narrow lane.
“Legs apart,” she says as she pats him down.
“Tyrell?” His mom hurries down the lane past the squad car. The bottom of her red nightgown drags along the snow-dusted boards of the footbridge. She stops, open-mouthed, a few steps from him.
“Anyone else up there with you?” the officer asks Tyrell as she lets go of his coat.
His jaw clamps shut at her question.
“Well?” the officer asks, crossing her arms.
“Ah—I mean, no. Just me,” he says.
“One perp, unarmed, simple trespassing,” the officer says into her small shoulder radio. She nods and waves to her partner in the squad car.
“What were you doing?” his mom questions.
“Vandalism?” the officer pushes.
“No.” Tyrell can’t stop trembling, and his voice shakes. “I was just up on the third floor.” He points to the window.
The partner gets out of the squad car. “I’ll secure the premises,” he says. He looks like a football player. He strides to the front doors of the factory, opens the padlock with a key, and then turns on a huge black flashlight as he goes in.
The first officer turns and looks Tyrell in the eye. “So why were you up there?” She stands almost at attention in her blue uniform as she writes in a small white notebook.
“It’s hard to explain,” Tyrell says. A shiver shakes him as the image of the woman with the scissors flashes in his mind. “But that light—” He motions to the third-floor window where the yellow light came from. But the window is dark.
“You saw a light?” the officer asks.
“Yes.” Tyrell’s jaw is shaking and it’s hard to form the words. “There was an S.O.S. signal. It came from up there. I went to check it out.”
“Oh, Ty.” His mom looks as if she’s going to cry. “He just got over hypothermia,” she explains weakly to the officer. “He’s been having these ideas.” Her eyes fill with tears. “We thought he was okay, but maybe there was some cognitive damage.”
“Mom, I’m not hallucinating,” Tyrell insists. His heart pounds, and his voice catches in his throat. He turns back to the window, but it’s still dark. “I know what I saw. There’s a girl up there. She has these scissors and she’s trying to—”
“Oh no.” The officer rolls her eyes and holds up her hand. “Not that old story again.”
“She’s there,” Tyrell cries. “I saw her reflection.”
The officer’s pen stops.
“Her reflection?” his mom asks.
He nods. “There was a fire. At first she was trying to get out. And then she turned.”
“All clear,” the other officer’s voice comes through the radio.
“Tyrell, I think this civics report has really gotten to you,” his mom says.
“But I saw her!”
His mom puts her arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. “I know you think you saw someone, but the officer just said there’s no one up there.”
“Maybe it’s her ghost then,” Tyrell practically shouts. “I saw her!”
The shoulder radio emits a burst of static, and then the man’s voice comes through. “Looks like he climbed on a desk and chair to get up to the third floor.”
“Any vandalism?” the first officer asks into the small radio.
“Not that I can tell,” comes the reply.
A light comes on at the back of the Schneider mansion, and a door opens. A petite woman in a long white gown emerges. The snow swirls around her as she walks haltingly across the snow-covered lawn toward them. She appears to be floating.
“What in tarnation is going on?” she says, her voice shrill and agitated.
“Is that—” Tyrell’s mom starts.
“We’ve got the situation under control,” the first officer says. “My partner is securing the premises now.”
The old woman stomps right up to the officer and wags her bony finger in her face. “That’s my factory. I have a right to know what the devil is going on.” Tyrell can see that the white dress isn’t a wedding gown—more like a nightdress.
The officer straightens. “Well, Mrs. Schneider, we had a trespasser, and we caught him.”
“It’s Miss. Miss Schneider,” Tyrell says quietly.
The old woman’s face crinkles into an obliging smile. “Miss Schneider is correct. Been my name since 1922. Now, who broke in and why?”
Mom looks to Tyrell to respond, and the officer’s pen stops.
“I did, ma’am,” Tyrell says. “But I didn’t really break in. I had a key.”
“By yourself? Why go in there?” Miss Schneider leans forward, her wrinkled face inches from Tyrell’s.
“Because I thought I saw someone up there who . . . needed help.”
“Well, isn’t that peculiar?” Miss Schneider says. “Why did you think that?”
“I saw a light,” Tyrell explains.
“What in the world is going on?” His mom shakes her head and shivers.
“Would you like to press charges, Miss Schneider?” the officer asks.
The other officer emerges from the factory, dusting himself off. He closes the padlock and brings the key to Miss Schneider. “All clear up there,” he says.
Miss Schneider takes the key and then studies Tyrell’s face with her piercing, pale blue eyes. “What say I talk to the boy first?” She motions to her mansion. “Can I call you in an hour or two if I decide to press charges?” She totters slightly in her furry white slippers as she turns to face the officers.
“But I didn’t do anything.” Tyrell’s heart thumps. Would she really make me go with her? Am I going to be charged with trespassing if I don’t—or maybe even if I do?
“You’re lucky all of this commotion didn’t wake Dad,” his mom says. “This would just about kill him, you breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break in, I just entered!” Tyrell counters. “Because of the light.”
“Because of the light,” Miss Schneider echoes.
The officer pulls a business card from her front pocket. “Here’s my contact information. My shift ends at six in the morning, so call before then and we can get this all settled.” She hands the card to Miss Schneider.
“Come along, then,” Miss Schneider says and motions for Tyrell to follow her back to the mansion.
His mom shrugs, raising her eyebrows and motioning for him to go. “I’m heading to bed,” she says. “Hopefully Dad’s still asleep.” She storms back up the lane to their cottage.
Except for a light at the end of a dark hallway, the Schneider mansion is dark inside. Tyrell follows Miss Schneider down the passage to a warmly lit room.
A lamp with a deep red silk shade and long, silky tassels sits on a small, round, wooden table between two high-backed, burgundy velvet chairs. The yellow satin curtains are drawn tight.
Tyrell’s heart thuds. No one can see inside. And no one can hear me if I scream.. . . . Okay, maybe that’s overdramatic. They walk over a black-and-white marble floor and step onto a rich but worn rug. She motions for him to sit down in the chair to the left. A low fire crackles in a massive pink tile fireplace. A sleek black cat meows and jumps into Miss Schneider’s lap just as she eases down into the other chair. At least there is a phone on the table, though it’s probably older than I am.
“Now,” Miss Schneider says as her wrinkled hands pat the arms of the chair. “Tell me what happened.” She sets the officer’s business card on the table.
Shadows dance on the walls. Above the fireplace hangs a huge painted portrait of a young woman bedecked with jewels and dressed in a flowing peach gown. Tyrell’s eyes flit from the portrait to Miss Schneider.
“Is that you?” He nods to the portrait.
“Yes. Many years ago. It was painted a week before my wedding.”
“But I thought—”
“It was the very day Leroy was shot. I was sitting for the painter while he lay dying in the woods.” She looks down and strokes the cat. “I knew I’d never find another Leroy. And I wouldn’t settle for second best.” Her pale blue eyes fix on Tyrell’s. “But I digress. You’re here not to hear my stories but to explain why you broke into my factory.”
Tyrell clears his throat. A shiver, like a prickly electric charge, runs through his chest and arms. She probably won’t believe him. “Like I said, it was the light.”
“The light?”
“Yeah. I was in the attic—you know, the cottages up there? My parents are remodeling one of them.” He motions out the big picture window. “And I saw a light sending the S.O.S. code: three short flashes, three long, and then three short. I saw it two nights in a row.”
“Why didn’t you simply alert the authorities?”
“Well, what if it was just an electrical short? I mean, I’d feel totally stupid then.”
“Indeed. So you saw this flashing and you went to investigate.”
“That’s right.”
“And what, pray tell, did you find?” Miss Schneider’s eyes widen. The cat stares at him from her lap.
He shakes the young girl’s image from his mind. Miss Schneider will probably think he’s using the madwoman tale to get out of trouble.
“Well?” Miss Schneider presses.
“A girl!” he says finally. “There was a girl up there.”
Miss Schneider slowly nods. The cat closes its yellow eyes.
“And what did this girl look like?”
He shuts his eyes and pictures her. “She had on a white shirt and a long skirt. And her hair was up in this poofy bun thing.”
“Ahh.” Slowly Miss Schneider rises from the chair.
“You don’t believe me.” He looks at his hands. He’s been gripping his knees so hard his knuckles are white.
“What was she doing?”
He shudders at the memory of the image in the window. “Sewing, maybe? There were flames.”
“I never believed she had found work in the city,” Miss Schneider says as she walks slowly to the far wall. “But I was just a little girl, what did I know?” She stops at a small desk and opens the front. “No one believed me. I saw the light flashing that night—I told Papa later, but he dismissed me.” She pulls a small piece of paper from the desk. “What else did you see?”
“The flames . . . And a man.”
“A man?” She walks slowly back to her chair, carrying a black-and-white photograph.
“Yes. He looked familiar.”
Her head jerks to look at him. “Familiar? How so?”
“The article!” That’s where he’d seen that face before. “I’m working on a paper about workers’ rights, so I did research on Schneider Wearables. I saw his picture in a newspaper article about the new factory.”
Miss Schneider hands him a yellowed photo of a girl.
“That’s her!” Tyrell says. “Who is she?”