Behind Every Lie(37)

Just the thing to serve a family of vampires, I thought, trying not to gag.

“We have a baked potato.”

“Oh, that sounds good!” I said, relieved to find something normal. “And a cup of tea, please.”

I sat at a table near the back where I could watch the crowd. Young professionals in sharp suits drank elaborately mixed cocktails. Middle-aged businessmen laughed loudly, sloshing amber liquid all over the floor.

In America, you needed a reason to drink in the middle of the day. Celebrating something? Fine. Drowning your sorrows? Okay. Watching a sports game? Absolutely. But in England, apparently all you needed was ￡4 and a spare hour.

I pulled out my new phone and dialed Liam’s number. I was worried he might be in a meeting with that building inspector who was giving him so much grief, but he answered immediately.

“Hello?” Liam’s voice was brisk, the impatient tone of a busy businessman.

“Liam, it’s me.”

“Eva! Oh my God! I’ve been calling and calling! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

“I’m sorry, I had to turn my phone off. I bought a new one. Detective Jackson knows I’ve left the country, and I was afraid he could trace me.”

“Babe.” His voice softened with pity. “Don’t you hear how crazy that sounds? Please come home.”

“I can’t, Liam. I’m close to finding the truth.” I was about to tell him about the man following me, but he cut me off.

“Eva, you need to listen to me. I’m worried about you. You’re in a different country with a major head injury. You’re forgetting things, little things like our appointment with the priest and big things like the night your mom was killed. And now you’re being paranoid. This is insane!”

I was suddenly glad I hadn’t told Liam about the man I thought had been following me. Had I imagined it?

The bartender set my baked potato and tea in front of me. I mouthed, Thank you.

Maybe Liam was right. I couldn’t trust the things I remembered, David Ashford wasn’t available to talk to, and I was running around in circles. What the hell am I doing here?

“I just want to know what it all means,” I said, frustrated. “My mom, David Ashford, me. If only there was a place to look up—” I stopped, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Oh my God! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. The library! They’ll have news archives.”

“Remember what the doctor—”

“No.”

“Eva! You—”

“The doctor’s wrong!” I cut him off.

There was a long silence. I could imagine Liam’s face, the pinch of his mouth, the crumpled brow. Liam hated when I argued with him. It was a relic from his childhood, his arguments with his father, which he never won.

I took a deep breath. “I’ll come home soon,” I said, softer now. “I just have to figure this out first, okay?”

“Fine,” he finally said. “Just … take care of yourself, and stay safe. You’ll call me if there’s anything you need, right? Even if you just want me to hop on a plane?”

“Of course. I love you.”

“Love you most.”

I said good-bye, guilt thick in my throat. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave now. I couldn’t.

As I picked at my food, a busboy started collecting empty glasses from the table next to mine, young, oily hair hanging limp against a pimply face.

“Excuse me?” I tapped his arm. “Do you know where the nearest big library is?”

“I reckon it’d be the British Library in King’s Cross.”

“How do I get there?”

“Hop the Piccadilly line. It’s straight up from here.”

“Thanks.”

I grabbed my phone and purse and headed outside.

It took me longer than I thought it would to get to the British Library, thanks to boarding the Tube going the wrong direction. I transferred to the right train and got off at King’s Cross, but instantly got lost amid the puzzling array of entrances, exits, and shops.

Finally I made it back to street level. Cyclists and joggers rushed past. Cars and taxis and buses honked, competing for space. Schoolchildren and businesspeople and policemen in bright-yellow jackets hurried along the sidewalks.

Forgetting that traffic was coming from the opposite side, I stepped onto the road, only to leap back when a motorcycle blasted its horn as it barreled toward me. The driver shook his fist, shouting angrily as he zoomed past.

The British Library was set in an unassuming redbrick building that looked like a school. Inside, I wound my way through the multilevel atrium to the escalators, which swept up each floor like a wave. I followed the instructions to receive a Reader Pass and headed to the news reading room. A tiny mouse of a woman with large tortoiseshell glasses and a poof of curly brown hair showed me how to use the news archives.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “Our archives go back to the seventeen hundreds.”

“To be honest, I don’t have a lot of information to go on,” I admitted. “I wanted to find any news articles about a man named David Ashford. He owns the Selwyn House Art Gallery. It’s for a research project for art school,” I rushed to add.

“Certainly.” She clicked the mouse efficiently, navigating to a page and using the advanced search tool to narrow the parameters. “Let’s try this.”