You Owe Me a Murder(28)

The hostess found a small table for me near the wall and I ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea and a scone. I pressed my hands to the cool white marble tabletop, feeling the tension in my neck leaking away.

This was exactly the kind of place I usually disliked. I took after my dad, having inherited his desire for clean, streamlined spaces, zero clutter, everything with a purpose. One of my favorite places was the school lab. I liked the chemical smell, vaguely metallic and sulfuric.

My mom was the opposite. She described her style as “Parisian distressed chic,” which near as I could tell was shorthand for an overabundance of shit. She loved piles and piles of throw pillows with scratchy fabrics and trim—?and beads. She had collections of things squatting on tables and bookshelves: glass bottles in different shades of pink, tiny ceramic birds, vases, vintage cameras, and absolutely everything that was breakable. I moved through my own home on high alert. I had a constant phobia of bumping into a spindly table and sending a display of fragile teacups to the floor, which, given my coordination (or lack thereof), wasn’t unlikely.

This was different. The café was an explosion of color and light. Everything in it had a purpose, but also existed to be beautiful. The tall ceiling, for example, not only let in light but also made it feel easier to breathe. The couple seated next to me got up, leaving their copy of the Times at the table. Once they were gone, I nabbed it before the waitress could throw it away.

I felt my limbs loosen in pleasure. The beautiful room, the hot tea and not-too-sweet scone, and now a paper. I’ve always loved newspapers. I know almost no one reads them anymore, and there’s no doubt that it’s easier to find what you want online, but there’s something special about newspapers. The smell of the ink and the thinness of the paper make the stories seem more vulnerable, but because they are a real physical thing, and not pixels on a screen, they are also more permanent. I chalked up my old-fashioned affection to the fact that my dad also loved newspapers. On the weekends, he got both the Globe and Mail and the New York Times. He’d leave sections scattered around the house, Business folded up on the kitchen table, the Arts section by the sofa in the living room, and the Book Review—?his favorite—?by his bedside. My mom was always trying to get him to subscribe to the digital versions, but he said he didn’t know what he wanted to read until he turned the page.

I sipped the tea, breathing in the steamy bergamot. The rest of the café drifted away as I skimmed stories on everything from farming subsidies in East Anglia and EU policy on immigration to a recipe for roasted beets and a biography piece on a British film star I had never heard of. The sheer pleasure of the moment—?not needing to be anywhere, the heat of the tea seeping through the china, and allowing the words to drift me along—?was perfect. The black newsprint marched across my vision, tidy lines of information like a military parade flowing through my head. I broke off small pieces of the crumbly scone, liberally coated in thick cream and raspberry jam, and popped them into my mouth. My headache had slipped away. I felt myself pulling together at last, the loose threads tightening back into place.

That’s when I saw it.

It was a small article. Hardly more than an inch or two buried deep in the first section: POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON DISTRICT LINE DEATH.

It took me a beat to realize that the death they were discussing had to be Connor’s, based on the date and location. They didn’t use his name in the article; they called him a tourist. Accidents happened all the time in the Tube. This one merited an article because the police had seen something on the CCTV camera. The direction of the camera meant they hadn’t had a clear shot, but according to the paper: “The victim suddenly lurched forward in front of the train, falling headfirst, despite the fact that it appears he’d been standing still prior to the fall. The angle of his fall, combined with the speed, indicates that there is the possibility he may have been pushed. Authorities are requesting any witnesses to come forward so they can determine if this was an accident.”

The headache that had drifted away slammed back. It was like being hit with a metal baseball bat across the forehead.

I glanced around, expecting people in the café to be staring at me with horror and disgust, but no one seemed to notice me at all. I carefully tore the small article out of the paper, wincing at the ripping sound.

I’d known it deep down all along.

Connor had been murdered.



* * *





I didn’t say anything about the article to Alex or the others when they came to meet me. Alex wolfed down the last few bites of raspberry scone I hadn’t been able to finish. My stomach had atrophied into a tiny tight ball, and the sense of peace I’d had for just a moment had exploded. How long until everyone knew Connor may have been pushed? It was possible the police were already back at Metford asking more questions. I was going to have to tell them about Nicki this time, but they’d want to know why I hadn’t said anything before.

I thought back through what Miriam had said and tried to fit it in with this new information. She couldn’t have done anything to Connor. I’d seen her for myself; she’d been at the very back of the platform with Sophie when it happened. But if she knew about our breakup, there was the chance she might think I had something to do with Connor’s death. Perhaps she thought she was protecting me.

I trudged back to the residence with our group. The weather was perfect—?sunny, but with a light breeze. It put everyone in a great mood. Sophie and Jamal decided to go into Kensington Park and rent bikes while Kendra and Jazmin were going to head to Oxford Street for shopping. I begged off, pleading my headache. Alex offered to come back to my room with me, but I told him to go biking with Sophie and Jamal. I needed to be alone to figure out what to do.