Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(37)

Q: Where did you go at the start of the game?

A: I went out the main door in the front. Rosie went out that way as well.

Q: Did anyone else go out that way?

A: No. It was just the two of us.

Q: And then where did you go?

A: Rosie went to the left, toward the drive and the woods. I went straight ahead. I almost fell over the ha-ha. I realized I’d made a bad choice running that way, so I looped around, behind the stables, to the back of the house and hid in the garden. After an hour or so, I got tired of being in the mud, so I crawled out to find another place to hide, somewhere warmer. That’s when I went past the woodshed.

Q: Did you try to get inside?

A: No.

Q: Why not?

A: Sebastian said it was locked.

Q: But did you see if it was locked?

[silence on tape]

Q: Miss Gill?

[silence on tape]

Q: Miss Gill, was there something about the lock on the woodshed?

A: No. I’m sorry. I feel quite . . . The lock . . . was . . . secure. Quite secure. During the game. Yes. I saw it. It was locked.





10


THE TOWER OF LONDON, STEVIE WAS EMBARRASSED TO FIND, WAS not a tower. The name was misleading. So many things she was told to expect in life did not pan out as she anticipated. What this thing was, was a massive stone boundary wall, with turrets along it and a grassy ditch where a mast used to be, and inside a dozen or more peaks and towers and structures of all kinds. And this whole thing sat in the middle of a congested business district within sight of the glass towers (actual towers) of modern London.

“We’re supposed to budget about two to three hours for this,” Janelle said, consulting her phone as they waited in line for the opening for the day. “But we have the Old City of London tour at one, and it’s almost ten now so I guess we should try to do this in two so that we can eat and send our first video report. Everyone has the tour app downloaded, right?”

Stevie gulped at her coffee and stared over at the iconic Tower Bridge—the one that was on all the posters and pictures. There were carts selling magnets and tea towels and phone cases with the Union Jack flag on them, the sure sign that this was the place for them. They were capital-T Tourists, and eventually they would be worn down and get a shirt or a hoodie that said LONDON on the front.

There’s nothing about a lock. It was strong medication, Izzy.

On one hand, Angela was a witness to a crime, a crime she wanted to leave in the past. That’s what she said. She wanted no part of this tale she supposedly told when on pain medication. But that was the thing. The discordant note. The problem. In this case, the problem of the lock. She could see it in her mind—a hunk of metal with a loop on the top, opened with a key on the bottom. Your average padlock, holding closed a piece of metal on a wooden door.

And the idea of it terrified Angela. Why?

The line began to move forward. Stevie tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and milk foam flew out of the coffee hole, some going up her nose, a bit more onto the sleeve of her coat, and a disappointing amount down her front. She found herself about to lick the sleeve when she caught herself.

Travel was making her disgusting.

“Happening already, huh?” Nate said, falling into step next to her.

“What?”

“The murder story. From last night. You’re gone already.”

“I’m not gone. Besides, who kills their friends with an axe?”

“That seems like a strange thing to say considering what we’ve seen.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t see axe murders. That’s messed up. I mean, all murder is messed up, but that’s really messed up. Angela was high on pain medication. It’s probably nothing.”

“I know you think it’s a thing because you haven’t said a word all morning and you were just about to lick your sleeve. Yeah, I saw that. This is how you get.”

“Doesn’t matter if I am or I’m not. There’s not a lot I can do about it.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Stevie paid her admission (which was breathtakingly expensive—now that she had a little to spend, she noticed how quickly it went). Nate was behind her, and as he tapped his card, the machine made a noise of disapproval. He tried again.

“That card isn’t working,” the person in the booth said. “Do you have another?”

“I, uh . . .” He scrambled for his wallet, which contained a single twenty-pound note, which was not enough.

“Here,” Stevie said, tapping her card for him, “pay me later.”

“Thanks,” Nate said. “I think I messed up the chip or something.”

He smiled weakly, but there was a crinkling in the corners of his eyes that struck Stevie as odd, like he was worried about the card. Nate had money. Nate probably had more money than any of them. He had a book out. She didn’t know how much he made from it, but it was probably substantial. And they had all gotten paid for their work at the camp over the summer—not a fortune, but it had been decent.

She was reading too much into it.

Once through the main tower gate, they found themselves in the walled complex, almost an entire town: the Salt Tower, the Broad Arrow Tower, the Martin Tower, the Brick Tower, the Flint Tower, the Beauchamp Tower . . . all these strung together by battlements and interwoven with lanes and greens and paths. The voice on the app breathlessly said that the tower was still technically a royal residence. It had been a palace, a defensive structure, a torture chamber, a munitions site. The tower had served as a jail for everyone imaginable, from unrepentant religious leaders to World War I spies to deposed royalty to actual sorcerers who scratched cosmic guides on the walls. It was protected by Beefeaters, or yeoman guards, who got to live there in one of the many charming residences that lined the walls. They even had their own private pub, full of historical relics. This place had seen over a thousand years of reigns and wars and bloodshed and millions of tourists.