The remains of the abandoned mansion were skeletal. Curved wooden beams reminiscent of a naked rib cage exposed the rotting interior to the snowy sky, while corroded siding sloughed off its exterior in swaths like dead skin from a corpse. The red shag runner Callie had snuggled her feet into proved to be nothing more than decaying dirt and leaves, the front foyer merely an empty room without a front door.
The woman they’d called Fiona had managed to make her escape during all the craziness—and Callie wondered if there was any truth to the story she’d told about the daughter and the autograph. And if so, was the address she’d given Happy real?
Once they’d surveyed the decaying house, it hadn’t taken a genius to understand why Fiona had been so adamant that Callie and Happy leave by the back exit: If they’d followed her directions, they’d have plummeted to their deaths via the deep ravine that lay directly behind the property.
As the girls trudged back to the Waldbaum’s parking lot clearly the worse for wear, Callie realized it was just dumb luck that no one had gotten killed. Harold—or whoever the mastermind was, if Happy’s hypothesis was incorrect—had been very clever in using the house as their staging ground, luring Agatha and Happy into a trap via an invitation to a master acting class with the great acting coach Count Orlov—something Agatha’s ego couldn’t resist. It was only by the most random of coincidences—asking the wormhole to take her to a “happy place,” which the universe translated as “take me to a place where Happy lives”—that Callie had stumbled into the story and wrecked the bad guy’s plan.
When they reached the parking lot, Agatha’s red Maserati was the only car left in the lot. As Happy unlocked the doors, Agatha threw her arms around Callie’s shoulders and gave her a pythonlike squeeze.
“I’m so glad we met you. If you’re ever in New York or L.A. and need a place to crash . . .”
Agatha released her, and Callie smiled.
“Agatha, like I tried to explain before,” Happy said, exasperation thick in her voice, “Callie comes from another universe—”
“Whatever,” Agatha said, rolling her eyes as she climbed into the driver’s seat and snagged the keys from her assistant. “Like I said: My casa is your casa.”
Smiling, she jammed the keys into the ignition, the car roaring to life underneath her nimble fingers. As Agatha gunned the engine, Happy rolled down the passenger window and Callie hobbled over, trying not to let her teeth chatter as the snow settled all around her like dew.
“If you hadn’t dropped out of the sky when you did . . .” Happy said, but she didn’t need to finish the thought. They all knew Callie’s surprise arrival had stacked the cards in their favor . . . at least this night.
“It was just dumb luck,” Callie said, shrugging.
“Are you sure we can’t drop you somewhere?” Happy asked, but Callie shook her head.
“I think the sooner you get out of here, the faster I can heal myself and get where I need to go.”
“Well, thank you for everything. Seriously,” Happy said, giving Callie a warm smile. “And good luck getting ho—”
Happy didn’t get to finish her good-bye because Agatha chose that moment to jam her foot on the gas, the candy-red Maserati speeding off into the shimmering white night in a cloud of exhaust.
As the car rounded the bend and disappeared into the darkness, Callie’s wounds began to close.
—
Callie took a deep breath and then a blinding golden light filled her soul and she was gone. With a sigh, she wondered why it’d taken her so long to figure this whole wormhole thing out in the first place.
Oh, well, Callie thought. At least I’ve got the hang of it now.
Callie opened her eyes to find herself back in Mrs. Gunwhale’s modular classroom, her classmates staring at her, gape-mouthed. She knew she must’ve looked like a bloody mess, but she didn’t care. She’d started this Remedial Wormhole Calling class with zero hopes of ever learning anything, and now she’d found that she’d conquered the entire syllabus.
It was a thrilling feeling—and she could go back to Death, Inc., tomorrow with her head held high and her ego ten times bigger than it’d been the day before.
Mrs. Gunwhale opened her blowhole to speak, but Callie raised her hand for silence.
“I just want to say thank you, Mrs. Gunwhale, and thank you, fellow students, for absolutely nothing.”
Callie smiled, her strength returning in leaps and bounds.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, grinning, “I’m going home. I’ve got a business to run.”
And without another word, Callie called up a wormhole and disappeared into the night, never to see the modular classroom at PS 181 again for as long as she immortally lived.