“Do you think Peter might come after us?” Izzy said. “They seem worried about it.”
In truth, Stevie did not know. Desperate people did strange and terrible things.
“Peter acted out of fear,” Stevie said. “He killed four people to try to keep himself out of trouble. That’s what motivates him. He’s afraid. And now he knows he’s being watched. You can’t discount it, but . . . I feel like he’s going to play innocent, or he’ll run.”
They fell into silence for a moment as London rolled past. At night, it was lit up like a theater, bright lights on white facades and monuments, glowing advertisements, blue-and-purple neon tracing lines through the dark. Now Stevie had time to let it all sink in. She was alone, her luggage gone and only her small backpack with her. Her friends were on their way home, far out of reach.
David was gone. The wave of emotion hit her with the sudden fury of a freak wave. She had to turn quickly toward the window as her eyes filled up. She squeezed her hands into fists. London was blurry through her tears. She hoped Izzy was too lost in her own thoughts to notice, but apparently not.
“Are you all right?” she asked quietly. “I . . . I know what happened. David mentioned it. I’m sorry.”
Stevie opened the window halfway and took a huff of the cold, minerally air to try to steady herself. It didn’t work.
“I was stupid,” she said, her voice cracking a bit.
“You?”
“I was jealous,” Stevie said. “Of you.”
“Me?”
It seemed this conversation might be one of identifying who was who.
“You thought—David? And me? Stevie, I have my own complicated romance going on with someone at home. It’s a mess. No, David and I never . . . it’s never come up.”
This caught Stevie off guard.
“You do?” she said. “You never said.”
“There’s been no time this week,” Izzy replied. “I’ve barely thought about it.”
The idea that Izzy had a full life that didn’t revolve around David had somehow never occurred to Stevie. Love made her stupid.
“Last night,” Stevie said. “I waited for him. He never came over. It was our last night and I left the door open, and he never came. I thought he was with you.”
“No,” Izzy said. “He left about an hour after you came to the door. He was talking about you the whole time. I was too much of a mess to really listen. I wanted to go to sleep—I was so tired—but he was sitting there on the floor going on and on. He does that a lot—goes on and on about you.”
“So he was sitting with you telling you he was going to break up with me,” Stevie said.
“No,” Izzy said. “He wasn’t saying that. Actually, last night, he was talking about himself. I don’t want to sound unappreciative—he was very kind to me all day—but by the evening he was having some kind of personal crisis and I didn’t have the energy to help.”
“Wait,” Stevie said, turning to face Izzy. She no longer cared about her wet face or the fact that snot was going to run out of her nose at any second. “What was happening?”
“All he ever talks about is you. He’s intimidated by you. Stevie this and Stevie that, and Stevie figured this out, and Stevie ran into the woods. . . . Last night he was talking about what you did at Merryweather, and how he has no direction in his life, and how you’re special and he’s not. That kind of thing. He does this. I was almost prepared not to like you, just because he’s always banging on about his amazing girlfriend, Stevie, but then I met you.”
This utterly foreign idea swept through Stevie’s mind, erasing other concepts and realities as if they had been written in sand. David was intimidated. By her? David wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Then this afternoon he had this strange look on his face when he brought me the fire safe and he told me what he did,” Izzy went on. “I can see why you would think it had something to do with me, given that you found him in my room. You’ve helped me. You helped my aunt. And I need to do something for you. Something has to come out of this.”
This seemed to rouse Izzy. A light came back into her eyes, and she sat up a bit straighter. There was something she could do to distract from the pain.
“What?” Stevie asked. “I don’t know what to do.”
“David,” Izzy said, “is an idiot. He’s lovely, but he is an idiot. He’s impulsive. He didn’t break up with you because he doesn’t care about you—he did it because he’s panicking about losing you. I’m sure of it. He’s probably back at the house now regretting it and losing his mind. Have you told him you’re here? Texted him?”
Stevie shook her head.
“Right.” Izzy pulled out her phone and began to type. She held it up so Stevie could see the message.
You made a mistake with Stevie, didn’t you? You’re an idiot. What were you thinking?
A pause. Three dots appeared, retreated, appeared again.
I know.
Another set of dots.
At pub. Vodka sodass ar twi pounds
I screwed upp
gonna drink everything all the vofka sodas
“Do you see?” Izzy said. “Let’s go make it right before he drinks that place dry. Excuse me!”
This was to the driver, who switched on the intercom. She redirected the cab to the Seven Bishops. And with that, the entire world spun around. The tears stopped. The streets of London propelled them toward David. It was all going to be all right.
They reached the Seven Bishops within minutes. The smell of beer hit Stevie as soon as they entered, along with the warmth of so many people packed into a small space. Izzy scanned, then guided Stevie deeper into the crowd that gathered along the bar and filled the floor space. In seconds she would be with him.
Then Izzy whirled around, a lopsided smile on her face.
“Oh,” she said. “He just texted. He’s not here. He’s at the house. We should . . .”
Izzy had not looked at her phone or watch.
“What?”
“This way!” Izzy said, a forced brightness in her voice. She grabbed Stevie’s arm and tried to guide her back through the crowd, but Stevie shook her off. Izzy was not a good liar. David was not back at the student house. Something weird was happening.
“Pizza!” Izzy said. “I’m starving. We need food. I haven’t eaten since . . .”
Stevie looked over Izzy’s shoulder, despite Izzy’s attempts to block the view. There, in the same booth that they had sat in together just a week ago, was David. She could see the back of his coat. His head. But his face was missing.
That was because it was pressed into another.
Acknowledgments
I did it. I finally wrote an English country house mystery. This has been a goal of my life. Little Maureen spent many afternoons with her head in a mystery, dreaming of finding the body in the library. I was bad at kickball, but I was good at finding the murderer. Many people helped me to realize this dream, and all deserve thanks.
Nothing happens without my agent, Kate Schafer Testerman, of KT Literary. We’ve been roommates. We’ve been partners in publishing. We’ve been inseparable friends. She has agented from the hospital bed while in labor （I didn’t ask her to—she said she was bored）， on horseback, while being an amazing mom every day. She’s everywhere at once. I don’t know how she does it. You’re the best, baby. See you in Vegas.