At first it was just general things, like the fact that she had the same necklace in both silver and gold, which she would match to the metal of her earrings. She always wore a bronze cross tied around her neck with a black ribbon no matter what other jewelry she wore. She mostly hid the cross under her uniform shirt, so that I only got glimpses here and there. She wore her uniform perfectly, without a button undone or hem unaligned, but she changed out her handbag every other day, and I had yet to see a repeat.
It was probably cheating, but I learned she was a vegetarian by listening in on a post-lunch conversation in the hall. Not particularly health conscious about it, though, as her bag was filled with empty bottles of Thai coffee and crinkled-up pastry wrappers that afternoon in drama.
Last Thursday I learned that Lily played cello, when she brought the instrument into class. She’d probably done it dozens of times before, but it took her hefting the giant behemoth case down the theater aisle for me to notice that those papers she studied during free time in class were actually music scores for orchestra. Her heart didn’t seem to be in it, however. Her attention was mostly distracted to the stage, even when there was nothing there but lights and dust and our empty circle of chairs. Her heart didn’t seem to be with Watson anymore either, though that guess was based more on his desperation than any behavior from her.
So I knew that much about Lily Patel. All those ridiculously useless facts, and that her father had been murdered right where I sat in Regent’s Park.
I touched my fingers to the clover leaf her father had undoubtedly carved into the tree trunk to note where he hid his money, and I let myself wonder briefly if Lily knew what had been hidden there. What would they have done with the money, had they known where it came from? Would it be life-changing money for them? Or would they rather have denied its existence to sustain their memory of Mr. Patel as it was, without Sorte Juntos, the criminal organization he and my mother had been members of?
I pulled my hand free from the carving before my thoughts circled back to my father, and instead let myself imagine what it must have been like to run something like Sorte Juntos. To be my mother. To pull the puppet strings of a team, guiding them in and out of some of the most secure places in London. To take whatever she wanted to take. To be above and beyond the rules and the law and any kind of morality. To be free.
Mum had lived that life. So had Alice. And somehow they both ended up living incredibly mundane lives as adults, one in a row house, the other on a farm. Not for the first time I wondered how someone with that kind of freedom and power could willingly decide to step into a cage-like marriage with my father. But those were the kinds of thoughts I was trying to avoid.
Footsteps brought me back to the present and to the realization that I could have been followed by a reporter and, more distressingly, that I was sitting on the spot where my father had killed a man. But before I could do more than stand, the light from a flashlight shone full in my face.
“You.” A female voice, but I couldn’t tell if the tone held surprise or accusation.
I shielded my eyes and started imagining worst-case scenarios, starting with a morning full of headlines about how a serial killer’s daughter was caught visiting his crime scenes hours after police had searched her house.
“What are you doing?”
I had no answer for that, so I turned my face away from the light and stepped toward the shrubs where Lock and I had hidden on the first night of our little game. The beam of light dropped from my head to my feet and my accuser said, “Wait.”
I kept walking until she said my name.
“Mori, wait.”
I hazarded a look and was surprised to see Lily Patel staring at me with the same expression she wore in drama, like she couldn’t decide what to think, but just the sight of me made her sad.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
She was holding flowers and an unopened can of beer, which seemed an odd combination, but I knew I had no right to ask anything. So I glanced toward the shrubbery again and took one more step. “I’ll go.”
“Stay. I really want to know why,” she said, no trace of anger in her voice. “Why are you here?”
I looked over at where the clover carving was. I could barely make out one edge of it now that the light had moved, but the shape of it, the way the leaves pointed, all of it matched the image on my mother’s coin exactly. I thought I didn’t know why I was there, but that wasn’t true. There was a reason—a reason I wasn’t sure I should tell Lily.
I hadn’t told anyone about the picture of my mother and the other members of Sorte Juntos, or how she factored into the crimes. First, because I wouldn’t allow my father to hide behind her death. But mostly, I didn’t want pictures of my mom sprawled across the news sites. As a more practical reason, I also didn’t want Alice’s involvement to be discovered.
Lily would surely take anything damning to my father directly to the prosecutor, so telling her the story was out. But for some reason, I didn’t want to lie to her either. A stupid, stupid want, really.
“My mother,” I said, after a tremendous pause.
“What about her?”
“She knew your dad. They were friends.”
Lily dropped her flashlight but didn’t make a move to pick it back up again, so it was left to rock on the ground, casting an odd, shifting light all around us. “What kind of friends?” She paused, but not long enough for me to answer. “Is that why?”
I shook my head, though I kind of wanted to be able to tell her that it was all as easy as an affair and a jealous husband lashing out. Only that lie would make it seem as though her father had done something wrong, and that wasn’t the case. “I don’t know why, but they were just friends. Not what you’re thinking.”
“How long have you known this?” She stepped toward me, tapping the flashlight with her shoe. And when the light shifted, I could see tears shining in her eyes. “How long?” she repeated, when I remained mute.
“The memorial. There was a picture of your dad in a group of people at a party. My mom was part of that group.”
A sparkling tear dripped down her cheek and she sank to sit in the dirt. It was my opportunity to leave, but I no longer wanted to. And when I couldn’t tolerate the awkwardness of her silent tears and my looming over her, I sat down as well.
Almost as soon as I did, Lily said the very last thing I ever expected to hear that night. “Sorte Juntos.”
We stared at each other for a while, saying nothing— gauging each other while my mind spun, trying to sort out how in the world she would know those words. She’d spoken them like a password, like some kind of spy-code call that begged for a proper response. I could think of only one, so I slid my hand into my pocket and dropped my mother’s gold coin, clover-side up, into the dirt in front of the flashlight. I heard a soft rustling and then Lily dropped an identical coin next to mine. And when our eyes met again, she looked like she was about to smile.
“You took the picture from the memorial.”
I nodded. “How much do you know?”
Lily set the flowers down next to the flashlight and then hugged the black beer can to her chest as she studied me. “What kind of question is that?”
“Did you always know about the group?”
She shook her head, but didn’t elaborate.
“Do you know what they did?”
“Are you trying to figure out if I approve of our parents stealing millions of pounds from banks and jewelers?” Lily shrugged. “There are worse ways to make money, I suppose. What was your mom’s job in the crew?”
“I don’t know much about it.”
Lily seemed to suspect the lie, but that didn’t stop her from saying, “My dad opened the doors and safes.”
“Impressive.”
She sat up a little higher at the compliment to her dad. “I think so too.”
“How long have you known he could do it?”
Her expression darkened. “Not long.�
��
I thought about pushing her, but I didn’t want her to stop talking. She didn’t know my mother like Alice did, but maybe she knew more about Sorte Juntos than Alice was willing to tell me. There was so much I still didn’t know.
After a moment she continued, “My dad was just a locksmith, but we always had money for schools and trips. We also owned our house, which had a locked basement where Dad spent most of his time.”
“You were suspicious?”
“Not really. I thought maybe he had habits I didn’t want to know about. But one night last fall, he came home drunk, ranting about how ‘It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t how she wanted to go.’ So I took him to the basement door and made him tell me how to open it so he wouldn’t wake my mom. But it changed everything, that night.”
A hollow expression filtered across Lily’s face, one I knew well. The emotions attached to that memory were being burned out of her as she remembered them. Because he was gone now, she wasn’t allowed to hate him for that night anymore. Just another way death leaves its mark on survivors.
Her father’s comments pointed to the truth that my father had asked for money to help sustain my mother’s life and to the reason Mr. Patel and the others from Sorte Juntos had said no—because they knew and respected my mother’s wishes better than my father ever had.
“Which one was your mom?” Lily asked. “The one with blue hair or the other?”
“Why?”
“That picture you took, that was from the basement. I was the one who put it on the table at the memorial. He had a whole line of them up on the wall above his workbench down there. I kept them when I cleaned up. I could bring them. Next time.”
I wanted to see the lot of them, of course, but her offer felt more like the start of a bargaining session than generosity, and I was in no mood to make a deal, nor was I ready to make a date for “next time.”
“Do you often come here?” I asked.
Lily nodded and looked down at the bouquet she’d left next to the flashlight. “Mom refuses to do anything with his ashes”—she choked a bit on the word but recovered quickly. “There’s no other place to visit.”
I had one of those—a place to visit—but I’d never been to it. I hadn’t even gone to the graveside part of Mum’s service. It wasn’t like standing on a patch of grass by a granite slab of rock was going to provide some great balm to my soul.
Lily stood and meticulously balanced the bouquet up against the tree. She next opened the beer and said, “He had cases of this stuff imported from India. Kalyani Black Label. He said when he could find it in the UK it never tasted the same as the stuff he ordered direct.”
She carefully took a sip, then winced at the taste. “Three cases left in his basement. Thought he wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” It was an odd thing to say before pouring the liquid out slowly over the ground until all that was left was a puddle of foam.
When she was done, she came to sit next to me, facing the tree and the mess she’d made. “This is better than interned ashes anyway,” she said. “If his spirit’s anywhere, it’s probably here.”
I didn’t believe in spirits, but if they existed, I could believe one’s spirit would more likely stay where its blood had spilled than with a pile of ashes in a ceramic vase.
“I still hate her for it, my mom. She keeps his ashes in an urn in her room, hoarding them for herself, like she keeps everything else of his. She hasn’t even taken his clothes to charity yet. Hasn’t packed them up.”
“My father was like that too.”
“But you found the coin?”
“Mum gave that to me before. But I have a few other things of hers. I sneaked in when he was out and took some.”
“Weren’t you afraid he’d notice?” she asked, turning to look at me.
“He did.”
“What happened?”
“He tried to burn everything else that he had of hers and then hit me when I tried to stop him.” There was no reason not to tell her. It’s not like she hadn’t seen evidence of his violence on my face. Still, I surprised myself with the confession.
“Did he hit you a lot?”
“Twice.”
“Then just that time and . . . the night he was caught?”
I nodded, then watched in my periphery as she tried to formulate her next question. I knew she probably wanted to know what had happened that night, and I could have told her the same lies I’d told the police in rigorous detail, but in the end I decided to change the subject entirely.
“I’m sorry he killed your dad.”
Lily didn’t respond for so long, I started to contemplate how best to leave the clearing without her. I even picked up my coin from the ground and stuffed it back in my pocket. That broke her silent spell, but she left her coin in the dirt.
“Do you know why he did it?”
“Does it matter?” We both stared at the beer foam floating above the dirt.
“Yes?”
“Because he’s a monster. A violent, angry bastard who doesn’t deserve his next breath, much less the luxuries he’s getting in a jail cell.”
Lily gave in to a wicked grin. It faded quickly, but it made me like her more. “Do you really believe that?”
I nodded, and she slid her arm around mine, scooting closer. It was an odd gesture, like it was supposed to mean something. I supposed the fact that we were both facing the flowers and beer foam was designed to be fraught with meaning as well. But I didn’t feel it.
“Your statement to police. You’re not going to take it back because he’s your dad or anything, yeah?”
I turned my head to look fully into her eyes, so that even in the soft glow of her flashlight, she could see me clearly. “If you believe nothing else I say, know for certain that I will make sure he pays fully for what he has done.”
She told me that she’d be at her dad’s clearing every other night from then on, then she held my arm more tightly. It reminded me of how Sadie would hug my arm and rest her cheek on my shoulder when she wanted to do something she knew I wouldn’t like. I wondered what Lily wanted from me. I couldn’t imagine we’d ever be actual friends, but I supposed, when it came to my father, we wanted the same thing. That was apparently enough for Lily Patel. For now.
Chapter 5
I knew that I’d eventually have to face Lock and all his questions about why I’d gone running out of the house for no apparent reason. I even thought that I might find him camped out on our front stairs when I came home that night. I hardly expected to see him the next morning sitting between Michael and Freddie at the breakfast table, messing around between bites of porridge like he was just another part of the family.
“Mine next!” Seanie shouted, practically launching himself across the table to shove a spoonful of porridge at Lock’s face. Almost the entire spice cabinet was spread out in front of them to play “Guess What’s in My Porridge,” a game the boys had invented with Mrs. Hudson the last time we were housebound because of the press.
Sherlock had a perfect record, which Sean was desperate to shatter. But Lock didn’t seem all that afraid when he leaned forward to taste from Seanie’s spoon. “Let’s see,” he said, then he sat back thoughtfully, moving the food around his mouth a bit before swallowing. “Currants, nutmeg, and . . .”
Sean’s face lit up like he was about to win a prize at a carnival, but it was short lived.
“Pepper? Did you really put black pepper in this?”
Sean’s hope fizzled, but he still managed to smile. “I was sure I’d get you with that one.”
“You should’ve used the white pepper,” I said, walking to the stove to serve up my own breakfast. “He probably saw it in the bowl.”
Sean looked from his bowl back to Sherlock. “No fair!”
Lock held his hands up. “If you didn’t want me to use my eyes, you should’ve insisted on a blindfold.”
The boys all laughed, and I slid into the chair at the head of the table, choosing to fo
cus intently on my porridge rather than face Lock.
It got strangely quiet for about thirty seconds, and then Lock said, “Last one done has to clean all the breakfast dishes!”
The boys all scraped the bottoms of their bowls into their mouths and ran from the room at record speeds, leaving Lock to gather their dishes. For the briefest of moments I thought he might just wash them in silence—at least let me finish my breakfast. But I was more amused than irritated when he said my name. Lock had no room in that mind of his to worry about other people’s breakfasts.
“Something about last night has me worried.” He rolled up his sleeves and turned on the water to fill the sink, like he had just said something about parliament or the weather.
Right to the point, then. I swallowed my bite of porridge and said, “It was nothing.”
Sherlock shut the water off and turned to face me, leaning back against the sink. “You told Mallory you thought your father had orchestrated the search last night. Why?”
I stared at him for a few seconds, trying to figure out if he was purposefully not asking about why I ran out on him or if he just wasn’t bothered by it. I must have paused too long, however, because he tilted his head a bit and asked, “What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Lock shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched a bit as he turned back to the sink, and then I knew. He chose not to ask. It could have been out of fear of my reaction or response. Or possibly he was waiting for a better time and place than first thing in the morning and in my kitchen. But I suspected that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t ask because he understood why I left without me having to say. That was one of the better aspects of my Lock. He couldn’t be bothered to allow me a peaceful breakfast, but he could give me space to breathe without my having to explain.
I was still smiling into my porridge when he asked, “Why did you think it was your father?”
Mind Games Page 4
