Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(99)

All the pretense was gone. Now they all knew what this was.

“. . . and she decided enough was enough. She wanted an answer. She decided to call her assistant to bring her sword. She put something out there. Anne Boleyn gave her part of the idea; her cat gave her the rest. Her cat steals buttons. He tried to take one off my coat while we were there. What if there was a piece of evidence? What’s a good piece of evidence? Something small that might come off clothing. She’d just seen that happen. A button. She texts that she has the button. It’s just a stab in the dark. If this doesn’t work, it doesn’t matter. Who cares? It’s nothing. It’s a typo in a text. But if it does . . .”

She turned to look at the assembled.

“And it does,” Stevie said. “Seven minutes later, someone called her. And right after that, Angela put on her coat and left the house to meet this person. The fact that she went tells us something. I don’t think she thought she was going to meet the murderer. I think she thought the person she was meeting with had the same suspicions that she did. But she was going to meet the person who killed Samantha Gravis, Rosie, and Noel. She was going to meet the person who unlocked the woodshed. She was going to meet the person who had the key that night in 1995 and was desperate to keep a secret.”

She turned to Sebastian, who blanched and leaned back.

“I didn’t . . .”

“No,” Stevie said. “There was something interesting in the witness statements about that night, something that seemed completely insignificant at first. But if you read them back and focused on only one thing, it was instantly obvious what happened. Someone had a key. So where were the keys? Down your pants, apparently. But remember when you tried to get the cabinet open to get the whisky? The cabinet didn’t open. It wasn’t because you were drunk. It was because you didn’t have the right keys. But then you got the cabinet open. And when did that happen?”

Stevie turned to the man who was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, a curious look on his face.

“When you switched them,” she said to Peter.





June 23, 1995

11:00 p.m.

IT HAD STARTED WITH THE GIRL THEY MET AT THE PUB. THE CANADIAN. The American. Samantha. That was her name. Peter should have realized she was American. She had that head of curly hair—big American hair. Big American smile. That American confidence. Julian met her first, because he was Julian. There was nothing monogamous about Julian. He flapped those long lashes at everyone, flashing those ice-blue eyes, giving that look that seemed so shy. Everyone fell for it. He and the American were all over each other within minutes.

Peter had watched this over his pint. Typical. Annoying. Everything was so easy for Julian because he was born looking like a Greek god. He had talent as well—a good singing voice, a decent guitarist, and a perfectly acceptable actor. If Julian wanted to go into acting professionally, he could do it in a heartbeat. Agents had already been sniffing around. But Julian was going into law and politics, where he would also succeed on looks and charm.

Peter did want to go into television and comedy. It was all he ever wanted. It was his life, and he worked for it. He wrote obsessively, studied every show, crafted every joke. He was going to the Edinburgh Festival with Yash and then to London. He knew it would be hard graft, and that they’d be broke. They couldn’t afford a flat—they were looking at getting a spare room in a house to share.

As he sipped his pint and watched, his anger grew, his awareness that they were days from going out into the world and that people like Julian would be everywhere. Someone needed to give Julian a kick up the arse.

Peter had had it. He drained his pint and left the pub, claiming exhaustion, which was fair enough. He walked home along the river, his resentment increasing with every step. At the house, he found Rosie furiously revising for her last exam. It was a bad night to tell her this news, but Peter did it anyway. He told her gently, with an apologetic tone—and he did feel bad for her—but he was also pleased by the steely look in Rosie’s eyes, even as they filled with tears. She wasn’t surprised, but the confirmation hit hard. She didn’t cry, really; she turned into a fierce and tiny ball of Irish rage. She thanked Peter, wiped a stray tear away, and then waited in the garden with a bottle of Coke, which she poured over Julian’s head on his arrival.

Peter saw this from the upstairs window. It was very satisfying to watch.

“Did you tell her?” Yash asked as they sat in their room that night, listening to the yelling coming from the garden below. “She knew by the time we got home. You must have?”

“I thought she should know,” Peter replied.

“Bad timing with her exam, but fair enough, I suppose. Anyway, Noel’s been circling for ages. I’ve seen them slipping off together. I expect that’s how this ends.”

Yash was right. Rosie spent the night folded in Noel’s long arms, sobbing. Probably doing other things too, but Peter wasn’t privy to that and didn’t really care.

The American was back at the pub the next night, and Peter was feeling better about things. Julian was sulking in the corner and didn’t want company. She was pretty, the American. Maybe he should have a go and try to talk to her. But before he could approach her, Yash was there, telling her a joke. And she was laughing. Laughing and laughing and laughing. With Julian, they had simply attached themselves to each other’s faces and dispensed with the niceties, but it was clear that Yash and this girl were connecting, getting along. Yash was leaning in, pulling faces, trying so hard to entertain, and the girl was giving as good as she got, gesturing and joking back.