Alice walked through the bare inches of space between the bags and boxes, closing them and taping them shut in a perfect dance with the boys. She smiled at me and handed me my phone. “I’ve packed you as well,” she said, pointing to the large blue bag by the staircase. “Check to make sure I got everything you want.”
“Michael?” I asked.
Alice’s smile fell a bit. “He’s still not awake. I’ve arranged medical transport as far as Brighton. Then I have a nurse who’s agreed to help the rest of the way. She owes me.”
A horn honked outside, and Alice twirled past us to open the door. She waved at a large rented lorry on the street. “Okay! He’s here. Start hauling everything down, boys.”
Seanie ran right between Sherlock and me to greet the driver, ripping my hand from his. I smiled, but when Lock wandered over to help Alice carry a rather large box, I caught myself holding my freed hand up to my chest.
Like a nostalgic idiot, I chastised myself, but still I couldn’t seem to shake this dark feeling. “The end,” I said aloud.
Leaving the house was just as chaotic as entering, full of shouts of “one last thing” and juggling bags and boxes out to the street. But I used the mess to kick my bag behind the door of Alice’s room, so it wouldn’t get packed off with the others. And I made sure I was the last one out the door, jumping into the front of the lorry just before it took off for the train station.
The driver was an old friend of Alice’s, who had once been an airline pilot, which meant the boys’ questions filled up the trip to Victoria Station. It also meant that we could leave the boxes behind with the driver’s promise to post them on ahead. And then Alice shoved a roll of pound notes into Lock’s hands and asked, “Could you take this one”—she shoved Seanie at Lock—“and buy us five tickets to Brighton? Two adult and three child?”
“With a connection to Lewes?” he asked.
She looked at me. “You’ll have to explain how he knows that later.”
I nodded and when she looked away, I met Lock’s eyes and held up four fingers. He grinned a little and guided Seanie with a hand on top of his head toward the ticket counter. I helped Alice and Fred navigate a cart full of luggage, which miraculously was only one bag for each of the boys and two for Alice. She didn’t notice mine was missing until everyone was packed onto the train but Sherlock and me.
Lock walked over to talk to the boys through the train windows the minute Alice exploded on me.
“What do you mean you’re not coming?!”
“I can’t. Not yet. It’ll just look like I’m running from all this police mess.”
She put her hands on her hips. “And?”
“What do you mean, ‘And’? That’s the reason.”
She stared at me, her eyes full of fire, though some of her exhaustion was seeping through. For all that I’d been forced to handle in the past week, Alice, too, had spent long hours at the hospital and police station, trying to keep us safe. Together. And there I was ruining all her work.
I glanced over at Lock, who was somehow managing to avoid having his hand slapped by Seanie’s, even with his eyes closed.
“Is it because of that boy?”
Wouldn’t it have been so much easier had that been my reason? Alice probably would’ve approved of that as my reason. But I shook my head.
“You’ve never cared about Mallory and his lot. I don’t buy that you’re starting now.”
I glanced at my brothers then looked straight into her eyes. “Their safety is what matters now.”
“So does yours. And what are you going to do all alone here? What great mission is making you stay?”
“I have to atone for my sins, apparently.”
Alice’s expression dropped. “What do you mean by that?”
I shook my head. “More important, I have to make sure Father atones for his.”
“You don’t need to do anything about your father.”
I wished that were the case. Sadly, I knew better. “There is only one way to make us safe.”
Alice grabbed my arms and stared into my eyes, as if she was trying to read my mind. “Just what do you think you’re saying? The last time you tried something stupid, he almost throttled you. You’re coming with us.”
“I can’t. They’ll probably let him out now. You know there are some who’ve been searching for an excuse to proclaim his innocence. And then he’ll scour the earth for those boys and we’ll never be safe. And he’s not my only problem.”
A little of Alice’s intensity fell away. She was starting to give up. “And if I make you come with me? I can’t let you do this. You know that.”
I pushed her hands from my arms and stepped back. “You can’t stop me.”
She started toward me, but the train signaled that it was ready to leave. Lock walked back toward us. She was stuck.
“You’ll miss your train.”
Alice growled out her frustration and took a step back toward the train, but she pointed a finger at me. “I’ll come back for you. This isn’t over.”
In the end, she got on the train. I waved to my brothers from the platform and yelled out my good-byes. Only Freddie seemed concerned that I wasn’t going with them, but my promise to follow them in a few days made him seem slightly less nervous about the whole thing. I waited on the platform until I couldn’t see the train anymore. Maybe if Alice knew just how much I trusted her to let her take those boys with her, she wouldn’t have been so angry. She had everything most precious to me in the world. She had to keep them safe.
Chapter 26
I told the cab driver to take us to 221 Baker Street, which I thought would be a hint to Sherlock of what was coming, but he seemed to take it as a good sign. Or maybe there was another reason for his sudden lift in mood. I turned away from him after a while. His subtle grins made my heart ache.
Once we reached his house, he said, “I’ll pack a bag and meet you at your place.” It was our second time standing out on the sidewalk that day, and I still didn’t know what to do about him.
That was a lie. Because I knew very well what I could do to make him leave, I just wasn’t sure I could do it. Not in the way I needed to get the job done. He looked at me with such a mix of expressions just then. Pride for saving me once again, for being the reason I was free to walk the streets. Relief? He’d gotten his way when I didn’t leave with my brothers. But something on my face must have clued him in to my own internal struggle, because he fell silent, making no moves toward his house to pack.
I opened my mouth to speak, still unsure what I would say, and then my phone rang. It was Evan.
“Miss Moriarty?”
“Yes. Were you able to find out the status of my father’s—”
“You were right. He’s still under charges, but his lawyers are using the similarities between this latest case and the previous ones to apply for your father’s release on police to court bail. If everything goes smoothly for them, he’ll be out by the end of the week.”
Three days. I had three days to make my plans. Three days to make myself ready. And that started with Sherlock.
“Thank you for the information. I’ll be in touch.”
As I ended the call, I noticed Lock starting to walk down the street toward my house.
“Lock, what are you doing?”
“Your door is open,” he said. After he’d taken a few long strides down the sidewalk, he looked back at me. “Do you think one of your brothers forgot to lock up?”
“I was the last one out. I know I locked it.”
We looked at each other, then ran down the street to the house. The door didn’t seem to be damaged, which meant a key had been used. I pulled Sherlock back before he started up the steps of my stoop.
“That call was from Evan. My father’s getting out at the end of the week. What if he sent one of his thugs ahead of him? He’s the only other person who has a key. It would probably be with his personal affects.”
Lock paused a moment. �
�Umbrella still by the door?”
I nodded. “In the stand, but probably just the old-fashioned long one.”
“That’s exactly the one I need.”
We crept up the steps to the gaping front door. Without stepping inside, Lock reached around the doorjamb for the umbrella. Weapon in hand, he stood taller and surveyed the entry.
When he didn’t move, I moved up next to him in the doorway and almost choked on the smell of fresh paint.
The place was trashed. All the bedding from Alice’s bed had been torn and was strewn about, so that ripped fragments of her sheets peppered even the stairs. It appeared the bedding from upstairs fared no better. Sheets and duvets as well as cotton batting and stray feathers were everywhere, up and down the stairs, hanging over the banisters, in and out of the kitchen and out the gaping open French doors to the back patio.
But worse, someone had pulled the full-length mirror from my room and tossed it down the stairs to shatter across the front entry. Book covers had been torn from their pages and thrown everywhere. And the paint smell—messages were spray-painted all over the walls and even up the steps. Red paint that dripped down from the corners of the letters like blood.
CONFESS, the blood said.
MURDERESS . . .
I KNOW YOU DID IT. . . .
And across the door to Alice’s room, the blood threatened, CONFESS OR DIE. I walked closer and touched a paint drop that stained my finger. Still fresh.
Lock moved me behind him, as if he was going to protect me with an umbrella. So I decided to arm myself as well, and retrieved a golf club from the floor. Annoyingly, I held it between my hands as if I were at another of Lock’s Bartitsu practices. Evidently, my body was going to instinctively wield any sticklike object in that fashion from now on.
We could plainly see that no one was in there, but still Lock made us walk around the center table and check behind the door. We walked the rest of the rooms in the house and found them similarly empty. Lock seemed almost disappointed when he slid the umbrella back into the stand, but he immediately steepled his fingers and stared at the ground, chasing his thoughts.
I caught myself watching him fondly. His eyes were the brightest blue just then, filled with clues and possibilities. He was in his element, and something about that broke my heart. But I didn’t want him to continue on this case of mine. Or, more accurately, I couldn’t allow it. My father’s impending release was all that mattered from here forward, and Sherlock was sure to either distract me from what I had to do, or attempt to thwart it. Either way, I couldn’t afford to have him near me for a while. And it had to start now. I’d run out of time.
I set the golf club up against the banister and turned toward Sherlock. “You can go.”
Only his eyes shifted when he looked at me. “If you think you’re staying here alone after this—”
“Whoever it was is gone. They didn’t damage the door, just picked the lock, probably. I have a bolt lock no one can get through, even with the key.” I paused too long and he started to argue, but I cut him off. “I need you to go.”
He fought away an exasperation that seemed to take his words, but managed to ask, “Why?”
I ignored him and stepped gingerly toward the door, trying to avoid the glass of the mirror.
His anger was evident when his next question burst forth. “Why am I leaving you with this mess all alone in a house that’s been broken into?”
“Because my father’s getting out of prison at the end of the week.” I gathered all my strength and looked up at him. My expression must have been adequately cold, because he dropped his hands and stood up taller.
“Don’t do this.” His face went completely blank, almost as if he were mimicking my coldness. But I knew better. I knew he was afraid.
So I pretended he hadn’t said a word. “And I need time to prepare.”
“Why are you doing this now?”
“I only have the three days, and I’ve no idea where he’ll go first when he gets out, or if the person who broke into our house will have told him that the boys left town. There are a lot of contingencies.”
Sherlock crossed his arms. “Why are you sending me away for that? I could be helpful.”
I wanted to explain that he couldn’t be involved in what I was about to do. That I needed him unstained and unbroken. I needed to know that he would still be Sherlock Holmes four days from now. But he’d never leave if I did that. Because he was still Sherlock Holmes, and I had a puzzle to solve. So, instead, I rested a hand on the doorjamb.
“I need you to go.”
“I won’t.”
I didn’t entertain his petulance with a response. I just stood at the door and watched him until his anger returned.
“Why? Why! WHY!”
“Because I don’t trust you!” I shouted back. “I don’t trust you to help me. How could I?”
The subtle shift in him from righteous anger to guilt—would anyone have been able to see that but me? “It won’t be like last time. I’ll—”
“Because even if by some miracle you don’t betray me outright, you’ll get in my way, and then I’ll have to cut you down to get to him. And don’t think I won’t.”
His expression was ice then. I’d seen it before; I’d caused it before. He was in pain again, and I’d done that. Did it matter why?
“So now I need you to leave.”
Lock took three steps toward me, the glass crunching with his every footfall, but he didn’t look at me, only out at the street. “I’ll go get my bag.”
“I won’t open the door for you. And I’ll call one of Alice’s men if you try to sleep on my stoop.”
He took another step so that we stood side by side, our shoulders almost touching, he looking out and I looking at him. I clenched my hand into a fist at my side to keep from reaching for him.
“Then I’ll come back,” he said. “I’ll always come back.”
I couldn’t show him the pain I felt at hearing my own broken promise tossed in my face. I remained perfectly still, feeling the sharper edges of my pain lance through me until I was gutted. Without looking, Lock reached out a hand to surround my fist—my one tell of the turmoil inside. Of course he’d seen it. He was Sherlock Holmes.
He pressed his thumb into my clenched fingers to relax them away from my palm. He traced his thumb across the indents my fingernails had made and down along my fingers. And then, slowly, he released my hand entirely, and I had to press it up against my leg to keep from grasping at the air where his hand had just been. I couldn’t look at him anymore, but I held him in my periphery.
“You’ll . . . ,” he started, but his voice broke, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “You’ll lock the door behind me?”
I nodded.
He mirrored the gesture. He cleared his throat again, and this time his voice was soft. “I’m going to call you at intervals throughout the night. If you don’t pick up within two rings, I’ll be back here. And I will break down the door if you don’t let me in.”
I should’ve protested, but I didn’t trust my voice. I nodded instead, justifying myself with the thought that I didn’t have to speak to him, just answer the phone and then end the call.
I thought he might linger there in my doorway. And maybe I would have broken down if he had, begged him back inside to stay with me. But he immediately stepped out onto our stoop and made his way down the stairs. I watched him until he crossed the street, and then I closed the door.
Which is when I found the picture.
At my eye level, on the back of the door, there was an old, stained picture of a young boy, no more than Seanie’s age, wearing a white shirt with red sleeves and black shorts. Someone had affixed it to the door using one of the small carving knives from the kitchen. I knew the boy’s face. I’d seen it before. Somewhere.
I studied the image then closed my eyes in an attempt to capture the memory. I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him on the street. It was more like I�
��d seen that photo before. I let my mind follow memories of family photo albums, pictures hanging on walls, television shows, and then finally newspapers. And because there was some law that what a person needed to find would inevitably be in the last place they searched for it, the thought of newspapers finally brought the memory back to me.
The scrapbook in the attic. The picture stabbed to my door was even the same picture of the boy, only the red sleeves were hidden in the black and white of newsprint. I closed my eyes trying to picture the article or the words of the headline for about thirty seconds before I realized I didn’t need to. The scrapbook had the article, which meant I probably even had a name.
“In the attic,” I whispered.
And then I heard two crunching steps behind me.
Chapter 27
Had I dodged left, I wouldn’t have gotten cut, but I also wouldn’t have had a weapon to deflect the next blow. I grabbed the umbrella from the stand, just in time to hold it up above my head as the knife came down again, high enough to see the look of hate contorting the woman’s features into a mask I knew all too well, down to her curly hair and bright-red-painted lips.
Our Sally Alexander was trying to kill me.
My brain recklessly tried to piece everything together, when I should have been more focused on the shift of her arm as she stabbed at me, which meant I got cut again, this time on my hip. I didn’t feel the cut, but a quick glance showed blood blooming through the slice in my jeans.
Nothing too serious, I told myself, holding the umbrella up again. At least she was attacking in patterns. In a moment of inspiration, I noticed she was left handed, and I released the left-hand side of my umbrella shield just as she sliced down, using her impact to spin my umbrella around and slam down on her hand with a satisfying crack. She dropped the knife. I stepped down on the blade and, like I’d practiced with Sherlock, kicked it away. But with all the rubble on the floor, it didn’t go near far enough.
Sally lunged for it, but the crook of my umbrella was just coming around and connected cleanly with her face, which sent her staggering back. I pushed it against her neck before she could recover and pinned her to the banister.
Mind Games Page 20
