The Love of My Afterlife(17)
I head to my bedroom, completely strip off, and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of my tower fan. I take a deep breath and open the first of the books that Aled gave me.
I push away the surge of mortification that runs through me each time I think of what I just said to Cooper.
It’s time to focus.
* * *
Two hours later, and while I am versed in every possible method of hiding a body and even how one might evade police capture, I am even more clueless about how to locate Jonah than I was this morning.
I open up my laptop again and google “Jonah T London.” The sheer volume of results is just as overwhelming as the last five times I searched “Jonah T London.” I click onto a LinkedIn profile for a Jonah Tanner. It belongs to a man in his fifties who lives in Tucson, Arizona, and is passionate about microfinance. Not my soulmate. Then I click onto a Jonah Tyburn, who is also in London. He is not the man I’m looking for because he is, in fact, a fifteen-year-old boy looking for someone to play Fortnite with. Not my soulmate. I click through a bunch of other Jonahs, but there are so many of them, and none of them is the perfect man I met in Evermore.
I shove my laptop away and knead my temples. Then I close my eyes and allow myself to picture Jonah’s face again. How bright and twinkling his blue eyes were. How he looked at me as though he saw what I’ve sometimes suspected was there whenever I examined my reflection with kindness: pale but reasonably unblemished skin and honest hazel eyes. A nose that’s a little big, but straight and classical looking in the right light. A soft and welcoming body, with thighs that are strong and thick and hips that curve outwards in a way that could be considered sexy.
I’m jolted out of my thoughts by my TV, which suddenly switches itself on. I gasp and search for the remote, only to see it lying innocently on my bedside table. An episode of Schitt’s Creek starts to play with subtitles. My jaw drops; the subtitles on the screen are written in a hot-pink cursive font, displayed bang in the middle of the screen, obscuring the actors’ faces. I read.
Whatever you’re doing doesn’t seem to be bearing much fruit, Delpherina. You might want to get a little help.
“I’m fine. I don’t need help,” I call into the air as the subtitles fizz into a brand-new paragraph.
If you say so. Just trying to be useful. It’s quiet around here today and I’ve read the whole of Emily Henry’s backlist plus reread the entire Bridgerton series. I had a spare moment, so I thought I’d offer assistance. No probs if it’s not needed! No skin off my nose!
“You could tell me where Jonah lives,” I try.
I stare at the screen and wait for a reply. But instead of a new set of subtitles, the TV simply switches itself back off. Of course. Merritt handing me an address would be no fun for her real-life romance novel, and that’s clearly all that interests her.
“Where are you, Jonah?” I mutter to myself. I picture him in Evermore and try hard to remember if there were any useful clues from our brief interaction. His T-shirt was plain, no logo. He mentioned London in general, but no specifics besides how magical he thought it was. I didn’t really get the measure of what kind of job he had, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was something impressive like a doctor, or a fireman…And while the thought of that is pleasing on a base aesthetic level, it does not transfer into an actionable plan.
I spend another hour dashing off online messages to every photoless Jonah T. I can find on the internet before concluding that Merritt was right.
I totally need help.
9
When Cooper answers his door, his brows are already furrowed, like he’s preempting the disappointment of our interaction. I think I’ve only ever seen him smile once. Back when he first moved in, he walked by me in the hall. He was on the phone to someone, absolutely beaming. I remember him doing a little bow of greeting as I passed, his eyes lingering on mine for an amount of time that was frankly a little awkward.
His body mostly blocks the doorway, but I can tell from the light behind him that his blinds are closed, only the blue hue of computer screens illuminating the room. “What now?” he sighs.
His attitude stinks.
“Just checking to see if the rumours were true,” I say extra breezily. “That you do sit alone in a darkened room all day, trolling strangers on Twitter for kicks. Biiiig incel energy.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “My house is darkened because it’s thirty-three degrees outside and this is an old building with thick walls. And I don’t use Twitter.” He fake smiles and moves to close his door, but I put my foot in the doorway before he can.
“Hold up…Can I come in?”
“No.”
“I…I need some help as soon as possible,” I say—a sentence I’ve only ever said twice in my life: once to a cashier when I couldn’t find the ripe-and-ready avocados in the corner shop, and the other time when I saw a pigeon and a rat having a fight outside Ladbroke Grove tube station.
I can see that Cooper really doesn’t want to let me in, but posh-boy politeness gets the better of him and he steps back, opening the door with a barely concealed grumble.
I step into his flat and notice that it’s much bigger than mine. In fact, it’s even bigger than Mr. Yoon’s. I take a look around. It looks like the home of someone much warmer and more interesting than Cooper. The walls are crammed with bookcases and art and framed pictures of vintage paperback covers. The sofa is a stripy cream fabric, covered with plump velvet scatter cushions in a dense Prussian blue. I gasp as I spot an original fireplace, the black cast iron almost pewter with age.