Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(28)

There was something almost elegant about the way Izzy rambled. Her conversation was a ball rolling on a marble floor, effortless in its unbroken motion, unstoppable without an outside force. Everything she said was polite and friendly, offered as a suggestion only—but the longer she spoke, the more Stevie realized that this was going to be the plan. It was too reasonable to fend off. You don’t argue with a gentle breeze. Why wouldn’t they go to meet with a historian, eat something delicious, and hear about an axe murder?

“. . . obviously, I don’t want to change your plans . . .”

Everyone looked at Janelle.

“Our dinners are generally open,” she said. “And meeting with a historian who knows a lot about the Tower of London seems like a good thing to do?”

“Oh, then paaarrfect! We’ll meet after you’re done with your tours tomorrow. What time would work for you?”

Everyone looked a bit helpless in the face of this polite onslaught. Plus, the group was starting to fade a little, from the lack of sleep and the time change and the cold rain. Stevie had the strong desire to go back to the student housing, get under a warm blanket, and take David with her. The matter was settled.

They walked back to Craven House. Izzy’s and David’s lodgings were in one direction and Stevie’s and the others’ were in the opposite. Nate, Vi, and Janelle took the elevator first, leaving Izzy, Stevie, and David.

“Have a good night!” Izzy said. She paused, looking to David to walk in her direction, then shook her head and corrected herself. “Oh, of course. You’re going that way. See you tomorrow!”

This was a very public way of acknowledging that David was going with Stevie. Though Stevie had gone off to private places with David many times, it still felt strange to her when someone else threw a spotlight on the fact. Like the world at large was conscious of her business. Which, of course, it was. As a detective, she observed other people—that other people observed her was the uncomfortable corollary.

Once back in Stevie’s room, David put his hands in his coat pockets and made a circuit of the small space. He knew this gesture pulled down on the coat, elongated it. He had a sly smile, a fox grin, as he looked around at the empty corkboard, her bags, the slightly crooked window blind. He stopped at the built-in desk on the wall and took a seat on the edge, then lifted the cheap plastic kettle there from its base.

“Even comes with a kettle,” he said. “It’s essential. They all love a kettle. Just fill it up and click.”

He set it back on the base.

“Did you know about all that?” Stevie said. “The murder stuff?”

He nodded. “She told me. She wanted to tell you. Everyone’s got a story, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, now you get to meet a TV lady and hear about a murder. See the nice things I get for you?”

There was a pause.

“Come here,” he said.

Stevie was right by the light switch. She hesitated. Should she switch it off? That was a direct way of signaling what you expected to happen. It didn’t seem smooth. But was it fun? She felt like she should err on the side of fun.

She casually bumped it with her shoulder as she passed, as if she didn’t mean to do it. He laughed.

She walked across the half-lit room, trying not to stumble over the bags she had set on the floor. The street below provided much ambient glare, as the streetlight was just outside. It was enough light to see the contours of his face—his long nose, the little quirked peaks of his eyebrows.

“I’m really,” he said, leaning in, “really, really glad you came.”

She pressed herself up to kiss him, hard. She felt a tremor through her whole body, a warmth, a sense that the entire world was here, running between them. This position—leaning halfway against the desk—was impossible to maintain. They both sank to the floor, ignoring the bed. The cold linoleum was the best surface in the world. His hands slipped under her T-shirt. She tried to shrug it off, but the hoodie got in the way. She sat up to remove the hoodie, remove the T-shirt.

This would have been the moment to deploy the fancy bra that Janelle had shown her, but then, what did it matter? The stretched-out sports bra was just as good, and David was reaching for . . .

The phone.

It was ringing, that is. A video call, from Dr. Quinn.

“Shit,” Stevie said, reaching for her shirt. “Shit, shit, shit. I was supposed to call. Shit . . .”

She pulled her shirt on and stood up, her head still spinning and her legs a little weak. She ran a quick hand through her hair, which did nothing. David crab-crawled away a few paces as Stevie answered.

“Oh,” Stevie said. “Hi. I’m sorry. I got confused about the time. I was . . . unpacking.”

“In the dark?” Dr. Quinn said. She was leaning back in her chair in her office at Ellingham, making the call from her computer. Stevie got the full effect of looking across the desk.

“I just . . . came in. I was in Janelle’s room. Sorry.”

She reached over and turned on the little reading light next to the bed. The effect was like pointing a flashlight at her face, like she was trying to tell a scary story. She sat down on the bed and tried to seem casual.

“How’s the accommodation?”

“Fine,” Stevie said. “Nice. Good. Fine.”