Behind Every Lie(36)

If Eva Clarke is dead, who the hell am I?

My chest squeezed like someone was crushing it in an iron grip.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

A woman walking into the Tube station clutching a young child’s hand glared at me. Sorry! I mouthed.

“You all right, missus?” a voice interrupted my thoughts.

I whirled around. A dreadlocked man sitting on a damp piece of cardboard was staring up at me. He shook a Styrofoam cup hopefully. I dug in my purse and pulled out a two-pound coin.

“Thanks, lady.” He grinned, revealing a mouth of missing and jumbled teeth, like toppled little headstones. “You gonna go talk to ’im?”

“Who?” I asked.

He jerked his chin across the street. “That man over there been starin’ at you.”

I followed where he was pointing and saw the outline of a man across the road—dark hair, tall build, dark coat—then a bus whizzed by, obscuring his face. The skin at the back of my neck prickled.

A feeling of déjà vu crawled over my skin, cold and sticky as pudding.

I was on the floor of Mom’s living room. A leaden weight was crushing me. And then the weight was gone. A man crashed to the floor next to me. Mom’s voice cried out.

“Run, Eva!”

Run, Eva!

I launched myself into the Tube station, slammed my travel card into the ticket reader, and lunged for the escalator. I flew past the tiled walls, along the corridor, and onto the first train that approached, not caring where it went, as long as it was away from here. The doors slid shut, and the train rumbled into the dark tunnel, shifting under my feet as I gripped a metal pole, trying desperately to steady myself.

The lightning marks on my arm pulsed, a scalding trail of fear zipping through my body, adrenaline and panic fighting for space.

Because I knew.

Whoever was at Mom’s house that night had found me.





eighteen

eva




THE CARRIAGE WAS PACKED. I wedged myself into a corner, my thighs touching someone’s knees, swaying along with the sea of humanity as the train rumbled down the line. It smelled like someone had burped after eating a burrito, the greasy scent hanging thick and heavy in the air. I covered my nose, my stomach roiling dangerously.

But I didn’t get off.

Someone exited at the next stop, and I slid into their seat. I closed my eyes and let myself relax for just a moment as the train clattered along, feeling safe among the press of other humans. Nobody here knew me. Nobody was following me.

Most people—normal people—hated crowds. They hated rush-hour traffic and shopping malls at Christmastime and the crush of a mob after a baseball game. But I’d always liked them. There was something reassuring about being one of many who acted the same, cheered at the same time, groaned at the same time. I knew how to act in a crowd, which way to turn and what expression to put on. I loved the vibe and energy of a crowd. I could be anyone or no one. It was when I was alone that the sharp fangs of fear and insecurity sank into my brain.

For the first time I realized that maybe that was why I’d felt a little … off since moving into Liam’s house. It was so isolated.

A metallic shriek filled the carriage as the train jerked to a stop at the next station. I felt calmer now, so I got off, checking over my shoulder and along the platform to make sure no one was following me. I stepped onto an escalator that seemed to continue for miles, only to be elbowed in the back as someone plowed into me.

“Stand to the right,” he barked.

I squeezed to the right as a parade of people marched up the left. When I finally emerged at street level I started walking, wandering the cobblestone streets in a daze. The fall sun was warmer than I would’ve expected, absorbing into my hair and heating my skin as I walked.

Eventually I ended up in a place called Covent Garden, which was packed with tourists and street entertainers performing magic shows, miming, juggling, unicycling, and breathing fire. Music from the buskers filled the air. I wandered into a soaring glass atrium and through a bustling market filled with designer fashion stores, cafés, and crafts stalls.

In one of the stalls, a piece of grayish-green jade caught my eye. It was smooth, roughly shaped like a heart. I picked it up, thinking of the kintsugi art I’d seen at David Ashford’s gallery and of Fiona Hudson’s urn, which I still needed to repair.

It was kismet. It had to be.



* * *



After buying the jade, I stopped at an old Victorian pub to grab something to eat and to call Liam. Mahogany-red banquettes, ornate woodwork, and elegant chandeliers decorated the interior. The place was packed, and I instantly relaxed.

I approached the bar and grabbed a menu.

“What can I get you?” The bartender was small and very young, with dark hair and bright-blue eyes, her bangs cut severely across her forehead. She was wearing all black, a trend I was noticing among Londoners.

“What’s a toad-in-the-hole?” I asked, pointing at the menu.

She smiled. “You American?”

I nodded.

“It’s sausage.”

I made a face. “I’m a vegetarian. What’s black pudding?”

She laughed out loud at this. “You won’t like that if you’re a vegetarian. It’s blood sausage.”