The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer

on all sides… No doubt, it was watertight.
    “Lookit this!” Lee Rosenberg, who always wore Lee jeans, called out. “Beanbag chairs! Comic books! Foldout beds!” he said, pointing to two cots, which folded down from the wall. “There’s even working windows!” Lee added as someone pushed the large Plexiglas window that had a hinge on top and swung out like a huge doggie door.
    “If it’s raining, you prop it open and still get fresh air,” Eddie Williams’s dad, who sold wholesale Plexiglas, pointed out.
    “Plus… look! A carpeted floor!” Lee shouted, motioning at the pale blue carpet. “Carpets are the Cadillac of treehouse options!”
    “No,
here’s
the Cadillac!” Vincent Paglinni interrupted, pointing to a bottle opener that was built into the wall. “
For beer!
”
    “For orange soda and root beer only!” one of the brave mothers up there insisted as the whole group laughed.
    For Marshall, that was the best part. Not the beanbag chairs, or the working window, or even the bottle opener. It was the laughter. And not
at him
, for once.
With
him.
    Sure, he spotted friends like Beecher in the corner. And Jeff Camiener, who he always ate lunch with and was the only one who never called him Marshmallow. But most of the kids here were kids he never talked to… who he was too afraid to talk to, like Vincent Paglinni, who usually focused his attention on what rock concert shirt he’d wear the next day. But there Paglinni was, as excited as the rest. They were all thrilled for him. Like friends.
    “
Check it out, Mallow! The pastor’s looking up your mom’s skirt!
” Vincent called out as the mob of kids rushed out to the porch to see Marshall’s mom climbing up the tree’s ladder rungs, with the pastor right behind her.
    The pastor looked down quickly. He wasn’t looking up her skirt.
    Still, the kids were laughing. So was Marshall. They were
all
laughing. Together.
    Forget the treehouse. For Marshall, this sense of
belonging
made his chest swell so large, he thought it would burst open. To have so many friends, their mouths all open with laughter…
    This was the greatest day of his life.
    Even as he looked out the Plexiglas window and saw his father, in the wheelchair, looking up at him—even that couldn’t ruin it.
    “
You gotta see this!
” Marshall called out, pushing the Plexiglas outward and letting in a wisp of cold air.
    “Already did!” Marshall’s dad called back, pumping a fist in the air.
    “Awesome, right!?” Marshall shouted, not even catching his dad’s lie.
    No matter how well the treehouse was built, there was no way his father would ever make his way up there. Not today. Not ever.
    But at this moment, surrounded by so many new friends, Marshall wasn’t being naïve, or insensitive. He was just being eleven years old.
    He smiled and pumped his fist back at his dad.
    From this height, Marshall could see over his house, over the telephone poles, over everything.
    Nothing could ruin a day like this.

18
    Today
    Crystal City, Virginia
    M arshall’s silent the entire ride down.
    But as his SUV moves deeper and deeper down into the underground garage, what’s far more discomforting is this: If Marsh is really the one who killed that rector last night—if he’s the one carrying around old playing cards and thinking he’s John Wilkes Booth—why’s he taking me inside?
    And more important, why am I letting him?
    For both questions, I tell myself it’s because he’s clearly not a murderer. I know that Marshall used to have Muppet sheets on his bed. I remember thinking his house smelled like werewolf. And I remember, when we were twelve, being at his mother’s funeral, right before his dad moved them out of town.
    But as the SUV curves down another level, I keep glancing over at him, waiting for him to say something. He never does. I try to play it cool, but I can’t stop staring, especially at his face.
    In the mugshot, his face looked shiny, like it was coated with