Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(46)

It was also, the guide informed them, the place where England kept a lot of its famous dead—over three thousand of them were buried there, and many more memorialized in marble and stone and glass. There were many kings and queens there, buried under mounts of marble with statues of their bodies in repose. You could do a selfie with Elizabeth the First, and people were.

From there, it was across the street to the Houses of Parliament and the Palace of Westminster, the seat of the government of the United Kingdom. It wasn’t where the beheadings happened, but it was often why.

Another break. Another sandwich. Obligatory pictures with the giant lions by Nelson’s Column. A relentless trip through the National Gallery in clammy clothes. The tissue stuffed into her shoe kept sliding out of place and sticking out the back, so she kept hopping and shoving it back in. Eventually, she took it out and allowed the pain to come through.

Art, art, art, art, art. At a certain point, nothing made sense. It was bulk information, stimulus overload. Things to check off a list.

“I’ve got twenty-one schools still on my list,” Janelle said out of nowhere.

“What?” Vi had been considering a dark painting of an arrangement of fruit with what appeared to be genuine interest. It was hard to tell. Vi was great at putting on a neutral face of interest—they wanted to go into some kind of international work to fix the world, and that was going to require going to a lot of meetings about boring things and talking to terrible people. They had mastered the blank stare. It was a gift.

“I was just thinking. Twenty-one schools. Seven are in Boston—well, not just Boston. In Massachusetts. I need to get that list down.”

“Okay.” Vi didn’t seem that interested in the topic of colleges at the moment, so Janelle turned to Nate.

“That’s too many, right?” she said. “I can’t apply to twenty-one schools. That’s crazy.”

“It seems fine,” Nate said. Nate had not been looking at the paintings of fruit with any interest. Nate would tolerate most things for about an hour if he knew there was the promise of a snack and the chance to be left alone in the near future.

“When the answers come back, that’s going to be more to decide. I want to make the cuts now. I mean, I’m not saying I’d get into all twenty-one . . .”

“You will,” Vi said.

“. . . but if I did, then I have to figure that out. Plus, that’s about two grand in application fees. And all the stuff to write and get. I feel like, I don’t know, seven is a good number? Or ten? How many are you applying to?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

“Probably not twenty-one, though, right?”

“No,” he said.

Janelle had not included Stevie in this conversation, perhaps because Stevie had riveted herself to a picture of a cluster of men dressed in black, standing around a table in their big hats. Why ask Stevie about college? You might as well ask one of the billions of Trafalgar Square pigeons their thoughts on inflation.

Stevie was delighted when her phone buzzed and she saw a message from David.

Where are you guys now?

National Gallery, she wrote.

Are you almost done? Because we’re outside.

“We?” Stevie said.

Sure enough, they were on the steps. With David, shivering in an oversized pink coat, was Izzy.

“I need your help,” she said. “My aunt is missing.”

“Missing?” Janelle said.

“She’s gone,” Izzy said, nodding. “She hasn’t answered any of my texts or calls since the other night. She doesn’t do that. She always answers me. So I went up this afternoon to see what was going on, and I went in and . . . she’s gone. All the things from the other night are still out. Food. Dishes. She would never leave those. Something is wrong. And! I looked on her tablet, which gets her texts. Look at this.”

She pulled a tablet out of her bag and showed Stevie part of a long text chain. The messages were marked from the night they had been there to visit.

9:23 p.m. ANGELA: I’d like to propose a get-together. Maybe this weekend? I think we should have a talk. Seb, is Merryweather free?

9:23 p.m. ANGELA: I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

9:27 p.m. SEBASTIAN: The house is free and I think I could make the weekend work. What’s going on?

9:28 p.m. THEO: I could possibly get coverage. Is something wrong? Are you all right?

9:29 p.m. SOOZ: Currently backstage. I have a performance Saturday evening, but we’re dark Sunday. What’s going on?

9:31 p.m. PETER: I’m scheduled to take the kids to Peppa Pig World this weekend, but I’m happy to bow out of that.

9:31 p.m. PETER: But same question.

9:32 p.m. THEO: Ange?

9:33 p.m. SOOZ: Ange are you all right?

9:41 p.m. YASH: You make it sound serious, Ange. What’s happening?

9:45 p.m. ANGELA: it’s about what happened

9:45 p.m. ANGELA: we need to talk

9:46 p.m. ANGELA: and I don’t think it can wait

9:46 p.m. ANGELA: She had the button

9:47 p.m. THEO: ?

9:48 p.m. SOOZ: What Theo said.

9:48 p.m. YASH: Button?

9:49 p.m. PETER: what?

9:50 p.m. SOOZ: I have to go back onstage. Please someone explain to me what is happening.

9:51 p.m. SEBASTIAN: Can you ring me?