Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.Ī light in the neighboring house comes on, but Paul pays no attention. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. Putting a shoulder into the wood, he sweeps the door forward. Paul knocks again, then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and cradles one into the slot. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again. I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. "I'm the one who called the police too," he says. When Paul gets no answer, he tries to turn the knob, but the lock holds fast. The wind whips through the columns of the fa?ade, licking puffs of snow from the eaves. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft. I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. "We can't do this," I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority. "He's still at the police station," Paul says, almost to himself. Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole. "Paul" I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper. "How do even you know the blueprint is here?"
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