“Isn’t it obvious? He wants me to go see him for some reason, so he unleashes his police brothers on me and then has Day call thinking I’ll give in just to yell at him. He could have been the one who notified the press as well—start to stir doubts among the public and push suspicion of his crimes onto someone else.”
Sherlock shook his head. “The call from DS Day is what bothers me about the whole thing. It’s not like your father’s never seen you get mad about something before. He’d have to know that you’d hardly relent to a meeting when you’re that angry.”
“There’s also this.” I pulled the letter to Freddie out of the pocket of my uniform skirt and placed it on the table. I still hadn’t opened it. Somehow even me knowing what it said felt like letting my father win.
“What’s that?”
“A letter from my dad to Fred. I found it on his bed last night after the police left. If he didn’t orchestrate the search to get at me, he definitely could have done it to have the letter delivered.”
“So an officer did your dad a favor?” He grabbed it off the table and flipped it over in his hand. “Can I open it?”
“Do what you want with it. Just make sure Freddie doesn’t see.”
He tore open the envelope. After a few seconds he shook his head and slid the note over to me. “I don’t think this is why either. Take a look.”
“I’d rather not.”
Lock pulled it back. “It’s just your father’s delusional fantasies, really. He goes on about how he was wrongly accused and will be out soon to come rescue them from you. Not enough here to warrant using a huge card like a search of your house to deliver it. Maybe if it had instructions for a meeting or something equally practical. But even then, there are so many less intrusive ways he could have gotten this to Freddie.”
“My father isn’t known for his subtlety.”
Sherlock shook his head again and reread the letter.
“Why does it matter?” I asked. “Either my father orchestrated it or Mallory was looking for an excuse. . . .”
But that wasn’t it, and I knew it too. Even before Sherlock said, “There’s a third possibility. A more concerning possibility.”
“The tip had to have been called in by someone else.”
Lock brought the tips of his fingers together. “Because of the hand.”
“Because of the hand,” I echoed. Had I really forgotten that gory little detail overnight? Someone had planted a severed hand in my bin. Someone who wished me to be accused of something. I wanted to blame my father for this as well. He definitely could have had someone set the entire thing up on his behalf, and I could think of a million reasons why. Perhaps he wanted people to think I was just as criminal as he was. Maybe he just wanted to scare me. Or it could’ve been some foolish attempt to make our house look targeted and not a good place for the boys to live. Only he couldn’t have known that Alice was coming, and until last night the boys had been living with Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock took my bowl and walked to the sink with it but turned before he put it in the water. “Your father is most likely not the culprit here.”
“Maybe not.”
“And that is more concerning. If we don’t know who it is, we don’t know why he did it.”
“And?”
He lifted my spoon into the air and said, “And we don’t know what he’ll do next.”
It was a dramatic gesture that was lost on me, because I was still stuck on all the myriad reasons why it could and could not be my father. So much so that I got up from the table and started to leave the kitchen without a word. Lock met me at the doorway, which he half blocked with one shoulder.
When I looked at him, he reached up to push a lock of hair back behind my ear and asked, “It was really nothing?”
The quiet tone of his voice made me want to reassure him, but I didn’t have the words. Instead, I nodded, then smiled a little as an afterthought. “I’ll have the boys bring down their school bags.”
• • •
I peered out the window to find a handful of reporters wandering about the pavement in front of our house. The days after my father tried to kill me, our sidewalk was a circus of movement that quickly became an impenetrable wall of people holding objects whenever my brothers and I showed our faces. Notebooks, cameras, microphones, and digital recorders were all thrust at us anytime we left the house or returned home. An explosion of flashes and whirs took in our every expression, sigh, and mutter.
That’s when Mrs. Hudson first offered for us to stay with her. We hid ourselves away at her house and had everything delivered, including our school makeup work, which was smuggled in by a ridiculously costumed Lock. We lived like that for three days until the next giant parliament corruption scandal stole the media’s attention away. That’s also when I’d decided to move back to our house. As much as I wanted to stay with my brothers, being in a stranger’s house felt like I was letting my father and the chaos of the press and protesters drive me away from my home. And that day, despite their diminished numbers, it felt like they were doing it again.
“Not this time,” I whispered as I let the curtain drop back into place. We’d only just gotten our house back as a family, and I was determined to make that last. This time I wasn’t going to let them make us hide.
All five of us stood at the door, Sherlock and me flanking my brothers, our arms around their backs like we could create a shield from what was about to happen.
“Okay, remember the rules.”
“No speaking, just walking,” Freddie said.
“Holding hands until we’re past the crowd,” Michael said.
Sean was last but loudest. “No one left behind!”
The boys all laughed, and Lock took my hand from Michael’s shoulder and squeezed it just before I opened the door. “Never boring with you.”
“Is that a compliment?” I asked, but I wasn’t sure he heard. The very moment the door opened a crack, the onslaught began.
“Is it true they never found the murder weapon?”
“Do police really think it’s still hidden in your house?”
“Are any of you planning to testify?”
“What about reports that the murder weapon could prove your father’s innocence?”
We kept our heads down and took the stairs as a group, but the wall of people wouldn’t budge when we got to the bottom, and I felt Michael start to tremble into my side. I sighed. I knew of one sure way they’d let the boys through, but it definitely came with a cost. Lock seemed to read my mind.
“Get them on their way and come back for me?” I said into Lock’s ear.
He didn’t look very pleased with the request, but he pulled my brothers close to him as I climbed up to the door. “If you promise to let my brothers go to school without following them, I will make a statement.”
The sudden hush was almost more frightening than the cacophony that followed. The wave surged toward me, leaving a nice opening for Sherlock and the boys to escape. Only Freddie glanced back as they ran up the street. I waited a few long seconds to make sure they’d gotten away clean before speaking.
“We have no contact with Detective Moriarty and, by law, he is not allowed to contact us. If you want answers to your questions about him, ask Detective Inspector Mallory of the Westminster Borough.”
I jetted down the steps as quickly as I could, and through what was left of the opening my brothers had taken, but I wasn’t quick enough. The questions started before I could reach the sidewalk, and I had to bat away cameras and outstretched hands holding phones and other recording devices just to take a single step forward.
“What did the police find at your house last night?”
“Tell us about the murder weapon! What does it mean that it can’t be found?”
“Do you believe your father’s innocent?”
After only about ten steps, I was ready to run into the house and never come out again, but just as I had decided to give up, a hand reached out and grabbed my wris
t, yanking me through the crowd and to the open door of a black cab. I dived in and crawled to the far side of the backseat, and then we took off all in the space of a few seconds. The silence was glorious. Not that it was all that silent. My panting breaths and the murmurs of talk radio plus normal traffic sounds filled the cabin of our taxi, but it still felt like silence.
After a few beats, my eyes met Lock’s and we both laughed a little. “Thanks.”
His smile filled his voice when he asked, “What in the world did you say?”
“To ask Mallory their questions and leave us alone.”
Lock raised his brow. “I’m sure that went over well.”
“And my brothers?”
“In the first taxi I flagged down, on their way to school. This is the second.”
“Two cabs on Baker Street this early?” I asked.
Lock leaned forward suddenly and asked the driver to turn up his radio.
“Sources report police searched the home of the now confined Detective Sergeant Moriarty, looking for the weapon he is accused of using to stab five men to death in Regent’s Park. There is no confirmation that the weapon was found, but pictures are circulating on Internet news sites of officers retrieving an object from the rubbish bins in front of the house and taking it away as evidence. We’ll report more on this as word comes in.”
I stared from the radio to Lock, who was still pitched forward, like some answer was right in front of us.
“I sent my brothers to school,” I said, pushing my fingers through my hair. “Everyone will know by the time they get there.”
We spent the rest of our cab ride in silence only to face down another handful of reporters awaiting our arrival at the school. There weren’t enough of them to truly block our way, and their questions were easily ignored, but once inside the school, I was forced to walk a different kind of gauntlet.
“Why would she come to school?”
“I barely made it inside from all those reporters. Does she think of no one but herself?”
“I wish she’d just move away.”
The third time someone asked why Sherlock Holmes would be walking with a girl like me, I pulled him into a less-populated side hall and said, “Just go to your class.”
I was pretty sure his pause was going to be followed by a long argument about why he wasn’t going to leave me to walk the rest of the halls alone, but instead he just said, “No.” He reached for my hand, but I pulled away.
“Not this time. Just, for me, go to your class.”
Lock pinched the bridge of his nose and then grasped his hands behind his back before he leaned in close to me. I fought the instinct to step back, but only because a group of girls walked by just then, and I didn’t want to give them any more reason to stare at us. Lock didn’t seem to notice or care about the girls, however. He stared into my eyes for a few seconds, then shifted so that his lips were at my ear.
“I know you’re still angry with me,” he said quietly. “But just for today, let me hold your hand and walk next to you. I promise I won’t lend it any significance. I promise I won’t think that this makes anything better. Just for today, for me, let me stay by your side?” I didn’t answer, so he straightened and said, “I’ve got much more important things to ponder than the passive-aggressive, ill-informed mutterings of our schoolmates. Please help me drown out the noise for a bit?”
He held out his hand, and I studied his face as I laid mine over his. But all he did was smile and exhale in relief. “That’s better.”
Holding Lock’s hand didn’t do much to drown out the voices for me, of course. But when the comments got more vicious and the commenters more bold, he wove his fingers through mine and patted out an odd rhythm with his thumb against my skin.
“I actually felt bad for her when her face was a mess. Now I guess we know there’s more to that story.”
“Wonder how many of those bruises were real?”
“How can she even face Lily Patel?”
As if her name had summoned her, Lily Patel came around the corner, buffered by her friends, who worried and kvetched around her until she held up her hand and said, “Enough.”
We both paused just long enough to exchange a neutral look. Before we could be led away by our friends, Lily said, “Wait.” She looked right at me, then, and pulled the handbag that was hanging from her elbow up onto her shoulder. She’d exchanged it for a new one again, I noticed. “Did they find the weapon?” She didn’t sound angry, just curious.
I shook my head.
Lily scrunched her face a bit. “Didn’t think they would.”
She walked on, her scandalized posse in tow, but that small interaction seemed to quiet the gauntlet. Lock and I walked toward my chemistry class in near silence. No more comments. No more whispers. In fact, I didn’t hear so much as my name again until we were mere steps from the classroom.
“Moriarty!”
A flash went off in my face the moment I turned. The strobe kept flickering as the paparazzo’s shutter ticked off as many shots as he could before Sherlock pulled me into his arms and back-stepped me into the room. A wave of whispers erupted from inside, and my chem professor stormed past us, shouting, “Out! Get out now!”
Lock and I stood in that embrace much longer than we needed to—well past when we heard a couple of other teachers join my professor, and even after the paparazzo’s shouts about his rights faded to nothing as he was taken to the nearest exit. I probably should’ve felt embarrassed as I extricated myself from Sherlock to answer the vibrating phone in my pocket. But I didn’t have time to think on such things.
It was a text message. From Alice.
“Who is it?” Lock asked.
“Not even one class for me today,” I said.
You need to come home, the text read. Followed quickly by, Immediately.
Chapter 6
Getting home involved squeezing through the side gate at school to avoid any lingering press and paying another taxi fare. I left Lock at school, tasking him with gathering my schoolwork for me, but really I didn’t want his day to be ruined just because mine was about to be. Sadly, there was no side door to our house, which left me no choice but to push through the fog of camera flashes, shouted questions, and picket signs proclaiming both my father’s guilt and innocence. It wasn’t until I stood on the top step near our door that I noticed the crowd of bullies was actually significantly smaller than it had been earlier in the morning.
“Please let that be a good sign,” I whispered as I opened the front door only as wide as it took to slip inside.
With the door closed, the entry of our house felt like a sanctuary. I leaned my head back against the wood, my hand still on the handle, and took a deep breath. I’d been more than stupid that day. None of us should have left the house for at least a day or two. The sighting of us, even doing something as plain as going to school, only meant one more day of this nonstory playing out as news.
I heard a hiss of pain coming from the kitchen and peeked around the corner just as Alice said, “Sorry.”
She winced in sympathy as she dabbed a cotton swab along the corner of Freddie’s mouth. Sean and Fred were lined up for triage at our kitchen table, which was covered in first-aid supplies like a clinic. Sean held a pack of frozen peas across his hand, but probably should have had another one for the blooming bruise under his eye. Freddie was definitely worse off. He had a gash along his cheekbone, a bruise on his jaw, and he was spitting blood into a paper cup. He lifted his hand up to scratch his head, and I saw cuts and bruises across the knuckles as well as a tear in his jacket.
I blew out a long exhale, which made both Fred and Sean look up at me, then down at the floor guiltily. I walked in and knelt down in front of Sean to meet his eyes. “Are you all right?”
He nodded and even managed to smile a little when I rested my hand against his hair.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never should’ve made us go to school.”
“We didn’t m
ake it to school,” Sean said.
Freddie glared at both of us. “It would’ve been fine if Seanie hadn’t mouthed off.”
“I didn’t!”
“I said that’s enough with the blaming,” Alice said. “You both did right in protecting each other and that’s the end of it.”
I lifted the peas to Sean’s cheek and reached for Freddie’s hand to bring it up into the light. One of his knuckles looked more swollen than the others. “Move your fingers?”
He wiggled them and winced, but said, “It’s fine.” He pulled his hand from my grasp and down into his lap, then hissed again as Alice went at his cheek gash with a new swab.
I leaned my head down until Freddie looked at me. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged and then winced away from Alice.
“You’ll want to take care of Michael,” she said, still entirely focused on Freddie’s face. “He’s locked himself in the bathroom upstairs.”
“Is he hurt?” I asked.
Freddie shook his head. “Don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Seanie nudged Fred, who scowled but didn’t say anything more. Seanie moved the peas to his hand and said, “He’s afraid of a van.”
“Press vans,” Freddie said.
“He says it’s not.”
Freddie elbowed Sean for speaking, then scowled and muttered, “He’s such a baby.”
Alice and I exchanged glances. Freddie was probably right about the van, but something was off. He was being uncharacteristically bitter as it was, but he was never, ever hard on Michael like that. I ran up the stairs to the bathroom, lifted my hand to knock, then changed my mind and sat down in the hall, leaning back against the wall by the door.
The strangled whimpers and sniffles coming from Michael echoed around the bathroom and broke my heart a little. He always was the softest of us—the one we all tried to protect at every turn. I sometimes wondered how he had survived all the months of our father’s abuse with his sanity intact. Perhaps it was because of Freddie, who either stepped up to take the brunt of it or hid Michael away. I had hoped that Michael wouldn’t have to hide as much once Dad was in jail.
Mind Games Page 5
