Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(41)

“Is this how you normally eat? Sandwiches in the rain?”

“I am eating fancy this week because you are here. Most nights I eat spaghetti from a can. Go on. Try it. Eat the art.”

Stevie tried to pick up the massive gyro neatly, but this was impossible. She leaned in to take a bite. It was as good as promised, fatty and garlicky and messy.

“You see?” he said. “The best meal in town.”

They ate for a moment or two. Stevie found that she was starving from all the walking in the cold.

“He made me an offer,” David said before he took another massive bite of the sandwich.

“Your dad?”

A heavy nod.

“Yup.” He wiped some gyro from the side of his mouth. “He cut off all money months ago. No school money, nothing. But he called me two weeks ago. He offered to pay my tuition if I stay here and finish school. He said it was because I was doing well here, but he wants me out of the country. I’m a liability. If he can keep me out of the US for three years, that’s one less thing to worry about.”

Stevie’s heart was fluttering nervously. They had danced around the topic of David’s school. This was only supposed to be a semester abroad. It was almost over. And now . . .

“I do like it here,” he said. “But I don’t want his money. I told him I would see him at Christmas and hung up.”

“So you’re not . . .”

“There are good things about being here. I like it. I really do. And I like being away from him. But you live kind of far, which I don’t like. What about you? I mean, I know you’re not sure yet—I mean, you’ve never mentioned anywhere you wanted to go. You could study here. They have good criminology programs here.”

“Yeah, but how?” she said.

“How what?”

“I don’t know how to . . . get the money for that. Or how to set it up. My grades are fine. They’re okay. Mostly. But I don’t know if I’d get in.”

“I got in.”

“It’s easier for you. Your dad may suck, but it does make things easier for you.”

It came out badly.

“I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean,” he said. He didn’t seem mad about it. “You’ve solved murders,” he said. “I don’t solve murders. I just hang around with someone who does.”

“Yeah, but that’s not something colleges ask. There’s no question about how many murders you’ve solved.”

David regarded her curiously for a long moment.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “You really don’t.”

“What? You think I’m being modest or something?”

“Something.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I like myself fine. But I’m confusing for colleges. I’ve done stuff, but I also missed a lot of classes on the way. I’m not Janelle. . . .”

“No one’s Janelle. Maybe not even Janelle.”

“I don’t speak multiple languages. I don’t know about art. I don’t play an instrument. Unless there’s some kind of true crime quiz on the application, I may be screwed. I only applied to Ellingham because I knew that case.”

Suddenly, she could no longer finish her massive sandwich. It had been delicious, and garlicky, and full of tasty, oozing things—but the concept of the future had stripped her of her appetite. She got up and threw the remainder of the sandwich in the trash, feeling bad about the waste. She went over to the wall that ran along the riverside and leaned her elbows on it. The famous Thames. Her mental image of the Thames had come from TV and books, and she had compressed it, making it quaint and pleasant. The real Thames was wide, with a powerful current, full of large vessels. It smelled faintly of the sea—or at least some primal element. It splashed against the supporting walls. It was a tough river.

David came over and opened his coat, invited her inside. She hugged him by the waist and pressed her head into his chest.

“Fuck,” she said quietly. “I hate it.”

“Hate what?”

“Not having everyone around me. Forever. I want to be with you. And Janelle and Nate and Vi, and that’s not going to happen.”

“Yeah, but . . . you’re here. We’ll figure it out. Come on. Look! You’re in London! We’re supposed to be having fun. Do you want to have fun?”

“What kind of fun?” she said, lifting her head to look at him.

“I can think of lots of fun things to do.”

Stevie could feel his heart rate increase, and hers sped up to match it. This was it. It was time to have the conversation. David was fully here with her, right now, and they could . . . do anything.

“I need to ask you something,” she said. “Have you . . .”

She had worked this out in her mind—how to ask this. It was a straightforward question. Well, it had straightforward aspects. Have you had sex before? But now that the moment was here and she was supposed to say this in actual words that came out of her actual mouth, they had been reduced to particles, blown apart in the winds of meaning. What counted as sex? What precisely did she mean? And then, if the answer was yes (she had always been pretty sure the answer would be yes), what then? Did she continue the line of questioning like she was in court? What kind of sex and what exactly and with who and how many times and can you draw the locations on this map . . .