You Owe Me a Murder(48)

We stood silently for a beat. “Thanks,” I said at last. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Alex plopped down onto a rickety bench. “I like to do things for you. Did you have an okay night?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I just didn’t feel like hanging around here.”

“I get that. You didn’t miss much. A few of us went out for Indian food and a movie.”

“Seriously, I really appreciate you covering for me with Deputy Grumpy in there. For a minute, I thought he might handcuff me and do some waterboarding.”

He laughed. “It’s okay. I considered saying I was going out for a ‘fag,’ since that’s what they call cigarettes here, but I couldn’t do it. My friend Jordan’s gay, so it just feels gross to use that word, but honestly, I swear the British have the best slang. You heard of bollocks?”

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“I mean, could there be a better term for balls? Gormless is another one of my favorites. I’m totally using that in casual conversation when I get back home—?it’s about a million times better than calling someone clueless. Anyway, I’m making a list.” He swept the flashlight around for emphasis.

I felt the corners of my mouth pulling up into a smile. “You going to write some kind of paper?”

“You know we homeschooled kids can’t get enough independent learning,” Alex said. “You laugh now, but this may turn into a thesis someday. I could be, like, a professor of Briticisms.”

“You going to take up an English accent, too?”

“Hell yeah, if I could pull one off. Who knew you could learn another language all while still speaking English?” Alex started talking with a thick British accent, although it sounded like a bit of a mash-up with some Irish and Australian, too. “I say, good sir, tallyho, what-what.”

I couldn’t stop giggling. I sat down, leaned back on the bench, and stared up at the sky. There were so many lights in London that it was hard to make out any stars. It was as if night never fully arrived. But it seemed bizarre to be sitting there, joking with Alex as if everything were normal, while both of us tried to ignore the awkwardness between us.

Nicki was out in the city somewhere, waiting for me to kill her mom. Making sure her alibi was airtight, toasting pint glasses with friends or splitting an order of chicken tikka masala, making sure a security camera caught her on film. I wondered if she felt even the slightest regret, or if she’d already determined that her mom wasn’t worthy enough to occupy space on the planet. It must have been nice for her to be so certain of herself and her place in the world. I wished for the one millionth time that I could call Emily. She wouldn’t know what to do either, but I still wanted her advice.

“You’re a natural,” I said to Alex. “With that accent, I would have thought you walked right out of Buckingham Palace.”

“Tell me about it. Lots of people say I am a dead ringer, voice wise, for Prince William.”

I was suddenly exhausted. I pushed off from the bench. “We should go in before he starts looking for us or wants to share a cigarette with you.” I held out my hand to help pull Alex to his feet. I shuffled behind him as he returned the flashlight to the guard and asked courteously to be told if anyone turned in a silver lighter. We paused on the worn carpeted steps. I could see the individual threads breaking free, like tiny whiskers.

“Tomorrow should be good,” Alex said, his foot kicking aimlessly at the balustrade.

“I forget what’s on the schedule,” I admitted.

“The war rooms museum thingy. The underground one.”

“Oh yeah.” The idea of rummaging around in a World War II bunker didn’t set me on fire, but everyone’s got his own thing. “Should be fun. See you tomorrow,” I said, trying to sound plucky and upbeat.

“Sounds good.”

Neither of us moved. My hand rested on the waxed wooden banister. “If you want, we could grab a cup of coffee or something after,” I finally suggested. “We didn’t really get to go out today.” I held my breath, waiting for his response. I hated that my lies had made things between us strained.

“I might have plans,” Alex said, not looking up from his shoes.

My gut ached as if he’d punched me.

He poked me in the ribs. “I’m joking.”

“Not funny,” I said.

He shrugged. “Social skills aren’t my strongest asset.”

“I suppose your accent is what you’ve got going for you.”

“That and my good looks and charm.” He smirked, then leaned over to kiss me softly. “I’d love to go out with you. Sleep well.”

“You too.”





Twenty-Two


August 24


7 Days Remaining


The Churchill War Rooms museum was more interesting than I had imagined, but not so interesting that my ass didn’t drag the entire time. I could find history only so fascinating when current affairs were keeping me up nights. Being in the tight bunkers with the low ceilings made me feel claustrophobic, but it wasn’t Winston Churchill that I felt breathing down my neck—?it was Nicki.

My poor sleep was catching up to me. I was exhausted, but at night I would toss and turn, trying to figure out what to do next, unable to drift off. My eyes felt constantly gritty and my nerves raw.