You Owe Me a Murder(70)

I exited the train at Baker Street and let people stream past me to the stairs. By the time the train pulled out, I was alone on the platform. The only sounds were the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights and the scuttle of trash blowing around the tracks. I walked to the edge of the platform and leaned over, feeling the stale breeze from the tunnel like hot breath on my face. I wondered if Connor had known what was going to happen before the train hit him. It must have happened fast. He might not have even known he’d been pushed.

Or maybe time had slowed down in that moment. If he’d glanced up, he would have seen the light of the train bearing down, felt himself tilting forward, off balance and falling. Connor had gotten an A in Physics. He would have known there was no surviving what was about to happen, how the velocity of the train would have exploded flesh and bone. His death would have been fast, over in a second.

One Mississippi, I counted in my head. It felt long. Not fast at all.

There was a squeal of a train in the distance and a rush of air down the tunnel that lifted my hair away from my face and rustled the trash on the ground. The tracks below were laid on a bed of loose rocks, all a uniform dark charcoal gray. I stared down and then the trash rustled again, but this time because of the rats. They were the unofficial maintenance men of the Tube, cleaning up anything edible. I’d seen them before, scurrying up and down the tracks. I’d heard that in London you were never more than six feet away from a rat, but that sounded like the kind of thing people said on Facebook without ever bothering to check if it was accurate.

In grade six our science teacher had kept pet rats in the classroom. Their names were Mickey and Minnie—?so original. Minnie was nice, but Mickey wasn’t a particularly affectionate rat. I didn’t recall him ever biting anyone, but he wasn’t snuggly, either. When they died, I’d suggested we do an autopsy to figure out what had happened. My classmates freaked out over the idea. It was science class, for crying out loud. They made me feel like a weirdo for even having had the thought. But scientists do what they have to do—?and that was what I was going to do now. Unpleasant, but required.

One Mississippi.

The roar in the tunnel increased as the train approached.

Two Mississippi.

The sour rush of air flew down the tunnel, making my nose twitch.

Three Mississippi.

The rats on the tracks fled.

Four Mississippi.

I took a deep breath and a step.

Five.





Thirty-Two


August 29


2 Days Remaining


I took another step back as the train raced into the station. I knew I wouldn’t kill myself. As scared as I was to do what had to be done, I had to see the situation through. The doors whooshed open and the platform flooded again with people. I drew in a deep breath. I couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

I didn’t have to use my phone to find the house this time. My brain had memorized the route and my feet led me there without hesitating. The click of the side gate seemed noisy and I flinched, but there was no one on the street to hear. The TV was on so loud in the house next door, I doubted the neighbors could even hear themselves think, let alone any sound I made. I heard the beeping chimes counting down to the BBC news.

I stepped lightly along the path. The air smelled like the lavender plants that lined both sides of the paver stones. I paused when I reached the end of the house. The garden beyond was overgrown; an ivy plant had gone crazy and taken over huge swaths of the yard. A teak wooden table with four chairs was tucked off to the side, and I could make out a large striped umbrella leaning against the far fence. At the very back I could just see in the moonlight where a vegetable garden had been laid out. Perhaps Nicki’s great-grandparents had planted it as a victory garden, doing their part for the war effort. Carrots and potatoes to crush Hitler. If so, they’d be shocked to see the garden now. Tall weeds had taken over, lacy plants that reached for the sky.

The light above the back door was out, the way Nicki had promised. I crept up to the house, half expecting someone inside to fling the door open, demanding to know what I was doing. But nothing happened. If Nicki or her mom had fixed the lock, I wouldn’t be able to get in and everything might be over before it even began. The brass knob was cool and I twisted it, holding my breath. The door clicked open, swinging in with a faint squeak.

I stood in a small mudroom leading to the kitchen. It was just large enough to fit a tiny bench where you could slip off your shoes. I took mine off, but instead of lining them up next to the pairs of Nikes and black rubber Hunter boots, I put my shoes into my messenger bag. If I needed to leave in a hurry, I didn’t want to go searching for them, but I also wanted to be as quiet as possible. I picked up an envelope and noted the name it was addressed to before putting it back down next to discarded real estate flyers. The name didn’t mean much to me, though, since Nicki’s name was fake and I didn’t know her last name.

I pulled out the knife from the bottom of my bag. Its weight surprised me. It looked as if it should have been heavy, but it was light. I’d snatched it that afternoon from the kitchen at Metford. I’d wanted to find something bigger, like a giant carving knife, but the only one that had been sitting out on the counter was this one. It was small, meant for deboning fish, but it would work for my purposes.

I passed through the kitchen, sliding along the floor in my socks. The counter was piled with dishes and there was a sour smell in the air. Something in the garbage was off. At the base of the stairs I peeked into the living room. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it looked ordinary. There was a book on the sofa—?a Ruth Ware mystery—?and a nearly empty glass on the side table with a sticky clot of red wine left at the bottom.