Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(40)

“For weeks, all was quiet,” the guide said dramatically. “Then, on the thirtieth of September 1888, Jack the Ripper struck twice in one night—twice in just forty-five minutes—in what is now known as the double event. It was a vicious, miserable night, raining and hailing, gale winds . . .”

There was a buzzing noise coming from David’s coat pocket.

“. . . how does he do it? How does he kill two people, in two different parts of town, in that short a time? How does he do his evil surgery in the dark of Mitre Square? Is he a phantom?”

“No,” Stevie said to herself.

Murder stories were always about the same thing at their heart—some twerp thought it was acceptable to take the life of another person. Murderers were small inside. People had died here, and they died because they were poor and vulnerable.

More buzzing.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Izzy,” he said, looking down at his texts.

“Murderers are shadows,” the man said. “That’s their defining quality.”

“Murderers are assholes,” Stevie said, just loud enough to be heard. “That’s their defining quality.”

Someone turned. The guide gave a wry smile that suggested that he had met her ilk before, these young people with their ideas about society, and he found it amusing. As he moved the group along, Stevie put her hand on David’s arm and held him back.

“I really appreciate this,” she said, “but . . .”

“No. I’ve been wincing for the last half hour. There were some other Jack the Ripper tours. But I went with this one because the guy had a hat. I think maybe I picked a bad one. This was a hat-based mistake.”

“What does that even mean, murderers are shadows?” Stevie said to David.

“Who the fuck knows? Well. Seems like we have some time, then. How about dinner and some light entertainment? I can think of a few fun things to do. . . .”

And there it was. The spark. The electric moment.

This was the night. She could sense it now. She could feel the energy coming off the golden-brown bricks of the Victorian warehouses that were now apartments, the orange glow of the lights, the people slipping down the dark streets on electric scooters. It would happen.

Except his phone kept buzzing. He pulled it out of his pocket, thumbed a reply, and dropped it back in.

“Sorry,” he said. “Izzy’s freaked out.”

“About what?”

“Her aunt hasn’t replied to her texts. She’s worried that she’s mad about last night.”

“Yeah,” Stevie said. “I think she might be. I think Izzy kind of sprang all of that on her.”

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

“Come on,” he said. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and took comically long steps, walking toward the Tube stop they’d passed a few minutes back. “I know where we should go. I’m taking you to the best restaurant in all of London.”

It was called Ali’s of London. It was, again, a plain white storefront with bright fluorescent lights, with a TV mounted on the wall playing a soccer match. In the window, there was a rotating vertical spit of roasted meat, off which one of the men behind the counter was expertly slicing thin pieces. David leaned against the counter with both hands, watching him work.

“Ali is an artist,” he said. “Look.”

Ali smiled and held up a slice of the meat. It was so thin you could almost see through it. As someone who had worked a deli counter for two weeks over the summer, she knew good meat slicing when she saw it.

“This,” David said, “is the food that keeps England running. This is the doner kebab. It is magnificent. Look.”

Another man was slapping flatbreads on the grill. The smell of the warm bread and the meat was intoxicating.

“People say fish and chips,” David went on. “No. People say sausages and mash. No. It’s the doner kebab.”

“He’s right,” Ali said as the man at the grill dropped the flatbread into a Styrofoam clamshell. “You want everything?”

“She wants everything,” David said. “This is my girlfriend. From America. She’s a famous detective.”

“Oh yeah?” Ali nodded absently as the kebab was loaded down with shredded lettuce and red cabbage, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, pickled peppers, and squirted with a white sauce.

The two containers were ready, and Ali rang them up. David reached for his wallet, but Stevie swatted his arm.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“Famous detective,” David said again.

“Good,” Ali said approvingly. “You should marry her.”

“Maybe I will,” David said with a smile as he scooped up the containers.

What?

What?

It was a joke, of course. Something shouted by a man with a sandwich. But David had answered. He’d said yes. Could you joke about that? What did it mean?

They went to sit on a bench at the riverside, despite the slight spittle of rain that had started.

“It’s seasoning,” he explained. “Everything here tastes better with it. You start to get used to it. You start to think it’s warm out when it’s only kind of cold, and that a little rain isn’t rain.”