Behind Every Lie(45)
I waited, unsure what to do. Had the intruder left?
Finally I unlocked the door as soundlessly as possible. I edged it open, the bleach ready. A woman was standing in the living room, reading something on her phone. I must’ve made a noise, because her head jerked up, and she screamed.
“What do you want?” I shrieked. I held the bleach up threateningly, but the towel started to slip. I grabbed for it while still trying to hold the bleach.
Shockingly, bizarrely, she laughed. “Your towel …”
She had a thick accent, Eastern European, maybe Russian. She was stunning, tall and slim, her body encased completely in black, like a panther. She wore a pair of chunky black Doc Martens. White-blond hair cascaded nearly to her waist. She had high, Slavic cheekbones, full lips, and dark-brown eyes framed by thickly mascaraed eyelashes.
I clutched at my towel, breathing hard.
“Why are you in Jacob’s apartment?” she asked.
“Jacob’s my friend,” I replied, defensive. “He said I could stay.”
“He did not tell me this. I will call him.”
She tapped at her phone, then spoke in a low murmur. I slipped into the bedroom and pulled on my clothes from yesterday.
The rush of adrenaline was fading now, leaving me nauseated and trembly, fear clutching at me like a fist. The blond woman appeared in the doorway.
“It is okay for you to stay,” she said stiffly. Her jaw, sharp as an arrow, was set in a way that said she didn’t approve. “I am Anastasiya. I am also Jacob’s friend,” she said. “I check on his flat when he is away. And sometimes I stay here.”
My face flushed hot with mortification, followed by an unexpected coil of jealousy. It was stupid. I was going to marry Liam. Jacob could date whomever he wanted. It was just our history, I guessed.
“I see.” I pulled on my shoes and socks and stood.
“Jacob said to help you if you need it. Do you need help?”
I slid into my jacket and pulled the collar up. “No.”
“It is very cold today. You won’t be warm enough in that.” She pointed at my quilted coat. “Have this.…” She pulled a chunky, knit scarf from a large leather handbag sitting near the door and held it out to me.
“Thank you, but no.” I was touched by her kindness, but I never wore scarves. I couldn’t stand anything around my throat. Not since the night I was attacked. It was why I’d cut my hair. “I’ll be gone tomorrow. Do you need the flat before then?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Jacob said you must stay as long as you need.”
“My flight leaves tomorrow.”
She stared solemnly down at me. “Jacob said to tell you …” She paused, as if she was trying to recall the message. “He said, ‘Be careful, Eva. You don’t know what you’ll find.’?”
Maybe Jacob’s real words had gotten lost in translation, but on her lips it sounded like a threat.
* * *
I hunched in my coat as I walked to Old Street Station. Anastasiya had been right—it was too cold for this coat. I tucked my chin low into my collar. I was jittery, agitated, like I was standing on the razor edge of a mountain, waiting for an avalanche to crash down on me, knowing it would crush me beneath its weight.
I ached to call Liam. I missed him, the way his smile soothed my fears, how confidently he took charge of things. His calm, doggedly persistent way of fixing all the messes I made. Like when I forgot to pay my taxes last year, or when I missed an important appointment, or that time I overdrew my bank account and he’d patiently taught me how to use Excel to track my money, then opened a joint account so we could share our finances.
But it was the middle of the night in Seattle.
I was on my own.
I checked my Tube map and plotted a route to the hospital. I miraculously found the right train and felt a little spurt of pleasure at my newfound independence.
As the train swayed down the tracks to Westminster, I tried to untangle the memory I’d had of my hand on a doorknob, seeing the apartment complex name, a man shouting, “Wait. Eva, don’t go!” Was it real, or was I mixing it up with another night, a dormant memory fragment only emerging now? I had no way of knowing, and my memory was the least trustworthy thing I had right now.
I exited the station just outside the Houses of Parliament, the Victorian Gothic structure of Big Ben right across the road from me. I stared up at it openmouthed, people bumping and jostling as they pushed by.
The clouds were clearing, the sky the color of washed denim marbled with lacy white clouds. Puddles glinted in the morning sun. Gulls wheeled through the air, shrieking above the din of black cabs and red buses thundering past.
I consulted Google Maps and headed toward the bridge. Across the river, the London Eye twirled slowly. I leaned over the bridge’s stone balustrade and watched the river’s sludgy brown waters slip by. According to the article I’d read at the British Library, this was the bridge Rose had jumped off.
Or had she been pushed?
The thought hit me out of nowhere. If you knew how to swim, you could probably make it, but not if you had a child with you.
The sound of giggling interrupted my thoughts. A handful of Japanese tourists were gathered next to me, all pointing and laughing while taking photos of the ground. Finally I got what they were seeing. The clover-shaped holes in the walls of the bridge had cast a neat row of penis-shaped patches of light at our feet.