Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(95)

There was no name for this staggering monolith of heartbreak. She tried to note that it was pain—pain, pain, pain, fear, pain, agony, panic, pain, nausea, embarrassment, anger, loss . . .

Under all of that, something was calling to her.

You saw it, said a voice in her head. You saw it.

Saw what? Where?

The voice in her head mumbled, cleared its throat. Stevie could almost hear it shuffling its notecards.

House, it finally replied. House. You saw it in her house.

Stevie grabbed this mental lifeline. She would give it every ounce of her being. She tightened her jaw and put in earbuds and blasted Britpop at herself. Get into the feeling of the time. The rhythm. The mindset. The jangling guitars and joking lyrics. She closed her eyes and floated around Angela’s house in her mind. She materialized in the living room, staring down at the sofa. What color was it? Emerald. The wall behind it was slate gray. There were crumbs on the coffee table. There was the smell of the curry . . . this was followed by the smell of the curry in the garbage later. The sourness.

What else? Angela kept money in her kitchen. A fire safe under the stairs. Books in every room. Books and beheadings . . .

“We’re here,” Vi said gently.

They had stopped in front of the massive glass and metal of Heathrow Airport. They were inside, dragging bags, waiting in line. Then the bags were tagged and taken away on a conveyor belt and they were off to security to put their remaining belongings in bins.

Remaining belongings. What were they again? Sleeping pills. Rocks. Keys. Phone. Throat drops. A toothbrush, maybe? Something else.

She followed along behind the others, weaving through the crowds. She cast a dazed and sad eye over the many things the airport offered to her as she left. Surely, she couldn’t depart England without a bottle of whisky, a set of china teacups, a Paddington Bear, a biography of some grim-looking sportsdude, an overpriced purse, a shawl, several bottles of perfume . . .

Did people come to the airport just to set their money on fire?

There were more practical offerings as well. Every other shop offered candy, water, luggage tags, and toothbrushes. Stuff you might have forgotten or need on the way.

You saw it, said the voice as Stevie was cleared through security. You walked right by it.

“Are you okay?” Janelle said. “You haven’t said a word in almost an hour.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “I should get some water.”

She spent the last of her English cash on a giant bottle of water and a candy bar. England was going to be over in less than an hour. Every step along the stark white corridors of Heathrow was a step away from everything. It was over. They followed the golden-yellow signs to their gate, where they had to go through one last passport and document check. Stevie was behind her friends, letting her vision go blurry.

If you go, the voice said to her, you will never know.

I have to, Stevie replied internally.

Then you’ll never know what you saw. Never know what happened.

Nate was beeped through. Janelle. Vi.

Stevie stepped out of the line.

“Where are you going?” Nate said.

“I just need to pee,” she said. “I’ll be there in a second.”

They had already crossed into the lounge. Stevie stepped back into the bathroom that was a few feet away from the line and locked herself into a stall. Her heart began to beat a little faster, and the fluorescent glow of the bathroom made a halo around her view of the world.

It was so close. It was right there. She squeezed her eyes shut. What had she seen?

A buzz. A text.

Are you okay? Janelle wrote.

Fine. Peeing.

Still?

Hurry.

We’re getting on.

Stevie, we’re on the plane.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Stevie was in the stall. She remained there when she heard, “Final call for flight seventeen to Boston. All passengers must immediately report to gate twenty-seven.”

They just closed the boarding door?

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON

Stevie stepped out of the stall and gripped the edge of the sink as the announcement came that the gate was closed. She lifted her phone and texted a reply.

I have to finish this, she wrote to the three of them. I will get another flight. Not lying. Not pulling you into it. I will see you at home.

She switched off her phone and turned around to leave the airport.





29


MAKING HER WAY BACK INTO LONDON, BY HERSELF, AT NIGHT, WAS A different experience. She took the Heathrow Express, backtracking to Paddington. There was no warm bed waiting for her. No loving boyfriend. No friends at her side. No support of Ellingham Academy backing the trip. Just her and a phone rapidly running out of charge. There was enough to send one text message. As soon as she got the reply, she put her head back and tried to close her eyes. Tried to focus. Tried to keep the grief from pressing on her chest.

There was work to be done.

The train dumped her at Paddington, where she emerged in a crush of commuters. She used the remaining battery power on her phone to navigate the streets, winding her way back to Angela’s shiny black door.

Izzy was waiting there, in her blue coat and a big pom hat. Doorknob wound around her. Izzy wore no makeup, and her eyes were puffy from crying.

“You missed your plane,” Izzy said in greeting, as Stevie approached the door. “Are you going to be in trouble?”