CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The designated thinking hour arrives and departs without a single moment spent in contemplation, because Hugh Brompton does indeed call, and the job in question is dynamite, the kind of contract that really establishes a new firm—but of course they want our strategies and suggestions at a meeting tomorrow afternoon. So Paul and I work late, eating take-out sushi at our desks and mainly ignoring our mobiles. Actually, mainly ignoring Paul’s mobile: judging from the number of times it rings, he either has a very active social life or an extremely jealous girlfriend. In contrast, mine rings only twice: the first call is Lara, and I take it to quickly check how she’s holding up; the second is from Tom.
“Do you need to take that?” asks Paul, and I realize I’m staring at the mobile screen as it rings.
“No,” I say brightly as I reach over to hit the reject button. “I can deal with it later.” A moment later the phone beeps with a voice mail alert; I deliberately ignore it and turn back to Paul. “Where were we? Oh yes—do you think we’re promising too much with this timeline?”
It’s one in the morning before I climb into a cab and settle in the back, glancing at my phone out of habit. A tiny red alert reminds me I have a voice mail. I play the message, and Tom’s deep baritone greets me. “Hi, Kate, it’s Tom.” A pause. “We really do need to talk about the case. Are you able to come round after you finish work? I’ll be home, so just give me a call whenever . . .” He sounds uneasy, awkward even. “I . . . Well, give me a call.”
It hardly credits belief that a single drunken kiss can reduce years of friendship to dodged calls and stilted voice mails. I stare out of the cab window in a state of torpid exhaustion and watch London slide by, lit patchily by garish neon signs and streetlamps that deliver a stark, pale light without color or warmth. After a moment I pick up my phone again and type out a text message.
Been working late, big pitch tomorrow afternoon. I can drop by after work tomorrow. Kx.
I read it over again before sending. Kx is my habitual sign-off with Tom, but now every character is fraught with meaning and open to misinterpretation. I remove the x.
The presentation to Stockleys goes well: Paul is a good presenter, suave and relaxed, and he thinks well on his feet; his style is a good complement to my own direct approach. Caro was right: the contract was ours to lose, and by the time we are shaking hands and saying good-bye I know we haven’t done that. Paul hails a cab, and we jump in and animatedly dissect the meeting on the trip back to the office.
“One thing I meant to ask you,” Paul says as he waits on the pavement for me to pay the cabbie. There’s an odd note in his voice that makes me glance over at him. His almost-translucent eyebrows are drawn together in a frown.
“What?” I turn back to the cabdriver to collect my change.
“Well, Mark Jeffers—”
“The Clifford Chance associate?”
“That’s the one. Well, he asked me if I was in line for a promotion.” I look at him blankly, not understanding. If he’s angling for more money, this is an odd approach. The cabdriver has pulled away, leaving the two of us together on the street by our office, but neither of us moves toward the doorway. “When you get arrested.”
“What the fuck?” My mind is racing. How in the world did Mark Jeffers get hold of this? And how many other people has he spread this gossip to? This sort of rumor could cut off a fledgling company at the knees: even more than most companies, a recruitment firm’s only asset is its people and their reputation.
He smiles in a thin line. “Actually, that’s exactly what I said. But he said he had it on good authority that you’re under investigation for a murder, of all things. In France or something. I told him he needs to get better sources.” He looks at me uneasily. “If there was anything to it you’d have told me about it. Right?”
I take a deep breath. This will need careful handling. “I am not under investigation,” I say robustly. “A girl went missing from the next-door farmhouse when a group of us were in France on holiday ten years ago. Her body turned up recently—”
“Turned up?”
“Was found.” I see her again, the bones in a crumpled pile, ghostly white in the dim underground light. “In a well, actually,” I admit, the words somehow slipping out.
“Jesus, Kate, and you’re just telling me this now?” He’s building up a head of righteous anger. I need to stomp on that quickly.
“Come on, Paul, it’s nothing.” I make a show of impatience, stamping on the guilt that rises as I ostensibly belittle Severine’s death. I carry on defiantly. “Since the six of us were the last people to see her alive, obviously the police want to talk to us again, but that’s all it is. I can assure you I’m not about to be arrested.” I throw all my powers of persuasion into the eye contact we’re sharing and hope to high heaven that every word I’ve said is true.
“You should have told me. The last thing we need is any kind of stain on our name. You know how people think: no smoke without fire.”
“Rubbish. We have a contract from Haft & Weil and now one with Stockleys; that’s what clients will focus on, and those kinds of firms don’t employ headhunters under investigation for murder. This is just industry gossip that will be forgotten the minute some senior partner gets caught shagging his secretary.” Perhaps . . .
He’s almost mollified; his anger has switched into sulkiness. “If it’s nothing, then why didn’t you mention it?” Does he have a point? We’re partners in a business together; we see each other every working day—would it have been normal to have mentioned this to him? I suppose so, especially if there was any chance of it impacting the business. Except I never thought that there was . . . Once again I wonder how the hell Mark Jeffers got hold of this. None of our names have ever been in the papers, except Theo’s parents as owners of the farmhouse.
“Because . . .” I take another deep breath, and this time I tell him the absolute truth. “Because I don’t like talking about it. She was a family friend of the guy we were staying with; we practically spent all week with her, and then she . . .” I trail off. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Though it simply didn’t cross my mind to discuss it with anyone. I wonder how many people Lara has spoken to about it, or Seb or Tom or Caro.
“Oh.” Paul is chastened; the personal impact didn’t quite occur to him. “No, I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” He touches my arm awkwardly, and I find a weak smile for him, appreciative of the gesture. I know I’m too comfortable being a solitary creature, but for the first time I realize that in an office of three, where we work long hours, that means I’m forcing solitude on Paul, too, who is definitely not naturally suited to it. I should make more of an effort to be social with him and Julie.
“Come on,” I say, turning for our office. “Let’s go find Stockleys some candidates.” I look for Severine as we enter the office, almost unable to believe that she wouldn’t have wanted to eavesdrop on that little scene with Paul, but she’s not lounging at my desk as I’m expecting. I was hoping to see her, I realize, to . . . what? To apologize? To tell her that I’m sorry, but I’m fighting to keep Paul’s morale intact and that’s more important than hurting the feelings of the ghost who haunts me?
Still, she was murdered. It’s not nothing. That’s what bothers me more than anything—that whoever did it might get away with it, and that would make it seem as if it doesn’t matter, as if Severine never mattered, because if our world continues without a hitch then we might as well be condoning it, and we don’t. I don’t. It’s not nothing.
Back at my desk, the first thing I do is reschedule the thinking time.
Tom’s flat. I loiter outside and try not to think about the last time I was here. I’m waiting for Lara: at the last minute I chickened out and called in the cavalry. And in truth Lara should be here, too; she’s already shown her colors by overthrowing Modan, and Tom has made it perfectly clear he only wants to talk about the case. Though I haven’t failed to notice the desperate, clichéd irony of my support system being exactly the person Tom wants instead of me, which is why I need the support in the first place . . .
Lara appears from the direction of the tube station in a powder blue dress, her blond locks lit luminous red gold by the evening sun that bleeds red ribbons of cloud across the horizon. Severine is beside her, walking barefoot with a loose feline grace in the familiar black shift dress, her hair wrapped in the red chiffon scarf. Her sandals are dangling from one finger. I walk down to meet them, marveling at the tableau they present with the setting sun behind them. Lara and Severine, one light, one dark. Are these two really all I can trust in the world?
“How are you, honey?” I ask as I hug her. It’s not a pleasantry; I pull back to search her face as she casts around for an answer.
“Okay,” she says, with a slight rueful twist to her lips. She looks a touch pale, and she’s wearing less makeup than usual, but her cornflower eyes are clear with no telltale red rims. “Not great, but . . . okay.”
We head back toward Tom’s flat, chatting about this and that. She’s Lara, but a dimmed version; I can’t feel her usual vibrancy, and the lack of it makes me ache for her. At the bottom of the steps, I can delay no longer, and I stop her for a moment. “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”
“What?” she prompts as I hesitate.
“That night in the farmhouse . . . with Tom . . . was there ever a time you were apart? And . . . well, did you sleep?”
She assesses me shrewdly, her eyes narrowing. “You’re trying to figure out if it could have been Tom.”
“I’m just looking at every angle,” I say stiffly. I honored the thinking hour this time, and this question is one of the consequences.
“What about me then?” she challenges. There’s a wild light in her eye that I don’t recognize. “If you’re willing to accuse Tom, why not me?”
“Of course it wasn’t you.”
“Why not?” The light flares into anger. “Why does nobody consider me? Pretty, vacuous Lara—she’s not even capable of a murder. Best not trouble her pretty little head with all of that.”
I look at her in astonishment. I know this is tied up with Modan somehow, but I’m not quite sure how to navigate it. “Well . . . okay, then, tell me: did you murder Severine?”
“Of course not,” she says, the anger suddenly leaving her. “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.”
The absurdity strikes us both at the same time, and we start to giggle. When the last bubbles of laughter have died out, I say quietly, “It’s not a bad thing, Lara. You’re full of light, you think the best of everyone, we all see it, it draws us in. But nobody thinks you’re vacuous.” She inclines her head a little ruefully, not entirely accepting my words. “Did Modan say something to you? Are you still talking to him?” I ask cautiously.
“I doubt it after our last conversation,” she says frankly. “He thinks I’m going to go off and screw half the men in London—the half I haven’t already screwed, that is.” She shakes her head in frustration. “When he asked before about past boyfriends, I was honest—more fool me. I didn’t expect to have it thrown back in my face. And aren’t the French supposed to be more liberal than the British on that sort of thing?”
“I’m sure French men are just as susceptible to jealousy as British men.” Poor Modan. He must be incredibly cut up to lash out like that: he doesn’t strike me as a man who usually makes such appalling missteps. “Are you? Going to screw half of London, I mean? Only maybe someone should warn the poor creatures, give them time to prepare . . .”
“Stop it,” she says, laughing again. “That was then.” She sobers and puts a hand on my arm, earnestness shining out of her. “I’m different now.”
“I know,” I say gently, though a shameful part of me wonders how long she will be different for. But I realize I’m being unfair: surely we’re all different now, from how we were in a French farmhouse a decade ago. Perhaps it just took a little longer for the impact to hit Lara.
A slight frown crosses her face. “You don’t believe me.”
“I do,” I reassure her quickly. “Of course I do. I was just . . . I was just contrasting with that week in France . . .” She cocks her head questioningly. I try to find the right words. “I mean, we’re all different now. Even Caro, maybe . . . Everyone is different, or—gone. Or maybe I’m seeing different sides of everyone . . .” When I try to think about what might have happened to Severine, it’s like trying to solve a puzzle based on the picture on the box, but the pieces have evolved—or maybe the picture on the box was never the right picture in the first place. Lara still has her head cocked to one side, the quizzical look still in place. I shake my head. “Never mind. Come on, we should go up.”
We link arms and turn toward the entrance to Tom’s block of flats. Lara buzzes to announce us. I hear Tom’s voice through the intercom, made tinny and weak. If he’s surprised at Lara’s presence it doesn’t show, other than perhaps through a slight pause before he speaks that could instead have been a result of the technology.
“I never answered your question, though,” Lara says as we start to climb the threadbare stairs. “We weren’t apart that I was aware of, except to go to the loo, but we did sleep. I don’t know how long for—maybe just a couple of hours?”
Tom has left the door of his flat ajar; we push through, and despite my now numerous visits, it still surprises me to see this oasis of light and modern style after the genteel shabbiness of the common areas. Following noise, we find him hunting down some wineglasses in the kitchen. “I presume a glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss, ladies?” he says with a grin, raising the bottle of white in his hand. He’s had time to change after work; he’s wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt that picks up the color in his eyes.
“Now that’s what I call a welcome.” Lara smiles flirtatiously as she kisses him hello. I glance away and thus am completely unprepared when he wraps his arms around me in his bear hug of old. The T-shirt is of the softest cotton, and he smells of the same aftershave from that dark, delicious corridor; for a moment the ache is blinding. When I pull myself together enough to return the hug I think I hear the stroke of his warm breath deliver Sorry into my ear. When he releases me I stare after him, trying to search his eyes, but he busies himself hunting down a corkscrew and then Lara pulls out a bar stool for me and I’m left wondering what just happened as I settle beside her on one side of the kitchen counter.
Tom is facing us, the dark granite kitchen counter between us. “So, what news?” he asks, uncorking the bottle. He’s meeting my eyes from time to time, but I’m failing to divine anything from his expression. The bar stool is an uncomfortable height: I can’t rest my elbows on the counter, and my feet don’t reach the floor, yet there’s no strut for them to rest on. I feel perched and precarious.
I shrug, leaving Lara to fill the gap. “Not much,” she says lightly. “I’ve turned celibate, and Kate is trying to figure out whether you could have killed Severine.”
She’s being flippant, of course she’s being flippant, but Tom pauses in the act of pouring, his eyes leaping to mine. “And?” he asks after a beat, placing the bottle carefully down and maintaining the eye contact. It’s clear he’s completely disregarding the celibacy comment; whether that will irk Lara or not I don’t know or care, because I currently feel like killing her for putting me in this position. I can feel her shifting uneasily beside me as it dawns on her that her comment is actually being taken seriously. “Do you think I’m capable of it?” Tom asks in a measured tone.
It feels like a challenge, though over what I’m not sure. Still, I rise to it. “Yes,” I say simply.
“Kate!” I hear Lara exclaim, but I’m still locked in a gaze with Tom. There’s nothing I can read in his eyes. Then he inclines his head a little and returns to pouring the wine.
“I’m not saying he did,” I explain in an aside to Lara, though my eyes keep darting back to Tom, looking for something, anything, that tells me what he’s thinking. I try to hook one ankle round the leg of the stool, searching for some balance. I need an anchor. “I’m just saying he’s capable of it. Under the right circumstances.” I take a sip of the wine that Tom has pushed toward me. “Probably all of us are under the right circumstances.”
“Not all, I don’t think,” says Tom thoughtfully. He has a beer instead; he takes a long pull of it. “Well, maybe everyone is capable of an accidental murder,” he concedes. “But the cover-up—that’s the crucial bit. Not everyone would have the self-possession to do that rather than calling the emergency services.”
You would, I think immediately; then I realize he’s watching me and have the uncomfortable feeling he can read my mind as he smiles thinly and raises his beer in a mock toast.
“Well,” says Lara after a pause. “We’ve certainly bypassed the small talk this evening.” She picks up her own wine and takes a long draft.
“Have either of you eaten?” asks Tom abruptly. “I’ve already warmed the oven; shall I shove some pizzas in or something?”
The process of deliberating over the food options dispels the atmosphere; for a few moments this might be simply a social evening. But once the oven door has been swung shut, Tom takes another swig of his beer and I see him change gear.
“Right,” he says decisively, looking at Lara and me in turn. “I think it’s cards on the table time now. What do you guys think happened that night?”
“My cards are on the table,” Lara complains. “They’ve always been on the table. I never thought it was one of us.” She spreads her hands wide in exasperation, almost knocking over her glass. “Oops, sorry, I already had a glass or two after work with some colleagues . . . Anyway, so . . . unless you, Tom, managed to kill Severine, get rid of her body, clean yourself up and get back into bed with me in the space of a little more than an hour, maybe two, then I have absolutely no information.”
I’m taken aback by the casual way in which she can mention being in bed with Tom—with Tom—in public, to Tom himself, without an iota of a blush. I glance at him quickly, but he doesn’t appear fazed in the slightest. “I’m good,” he says with dark humor, “but not that good.”
I try to stamp down my swelling sense of injustice—that Lara, who casually slept with him then tossed him aside, gets entirely forgiven, yet I am held out to dry for a mere kiss—but there’s a thread of irritation that leaks through into my words. “But you’re presuming the same person did it all,” I declare bluntly. “It’s possible more than one person was involved. Maybe an accidental killing by one, then one or two more involved in the cover-up . . .” This discussion is so abstract, so passionless, that it’s hard to remember the girl it relates to. I glance around for her, but she’s not in attendance. I feel an extra prickle of irritation: what kind of ghost wouldn’t be interested in discussions on their own death? Though I suppose it’s not as if she doesn’t know the punch line . . .
Tom nods. Somehow I feel an unexpected sense of approval from him. “Sounds like you have a theory.”
“No, I just . . .” I shift awkwardly on the very awkward stool. I don’t have a theory. I have a collection of disquieting observations that add up to a maelstrom of unease, but nothing that could be called a theory.
Lara shifts herself so she’s half lolling on the counter and cocks her head in sympathetic listening mode. “It’s just us, Kate.”
“Come on, Kate,” says Tom. He’s standing with his hands on the granite surface, leaning toward me. With his height the body language sends a curious message of encouragement mixed with intimidation. “You have to trust someone.”
I look across at him, meeting those familiar blue eyes that are Tom’s not Seb’s, above that unmistakable nose, and I am suddenly so blindingly angry with him that for a moment I can’t speak. I used to trust him, I even want to trust him, so why won’t he let me? He knows something, I know it, and by now he must realize I know it given Lara’s comment, yet he won’t let me in, and now I wonder if he’s Tom, if he ever was the Tom I thought I knew, and if I got that wrong, what else have I been mistaken on? A cold fear is twisting my insides, and a raw anger spears through my throat at Tom—Tom—for putting it there. “Really?” I say bitingly, when I recover my voice. “I have to trust someone? That’s rich. Who do you trust, Tom? The only damn things that I’m sure of in this whole macabre debacle are that Seb and Caro are hiding something, and you know a hell of a lot more than you’re letting on, yet somehow it’s my life that’s getting trampled on. So if we’re talking about trust, how about we start with you, Tom?” Tom’s eyes are widened in surprise at my attack; I catch a glimpse of Lara staring at me, completely nonplussed, and it halts me: I bite off the vitriolic torrent that’s just gaining momentum. If I let it free, I may never stop. I grab my wineglass and focus on it determinedly in the suffocating silence that follows my words while the remaining anger subsides along with my breathing, leaving me in acute danger of bursting into tears. The immediate urge to apologize for my un-British outburst is offset by a streak of rebellion fueled by the remaining anger that claims this was merely a fraction of what he deserves. Of what is inside me right now, of what this world deserves.
It’s Lara who breaks the silence, which has grown so thick, so heavy that I’m almost amazed anything can penetrate it. “I shouldn’t have come,” she says quickly, slithering down from the stool. “I really think you two need to talk and—”
“No, stay. Please. Stay.” I put out a hand to keep her there, still focusing on the wineglass. “I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath and look up at her. She’s half turned to go, uncertainty and concern in her eyes. I’m resolutely not looking at Tom, but I know he’s watching us; watching me, mostly. I can feel it on my skin: through my skin, even, like a pressure on my bones. “It’s not—that—anyway. It’s . . .”
“What?” she asks.
“My life—my business—really is getting trampled. There are rumors in the market that I’m about to be arrested for murder,” I say miserably. “Mark Jeffers, this associate candidate at—well, never mind where he’s at—anyway, he told Paul. And if he told Paul of all people how do I know he’s not telling the whole world?”
Lara sits down again, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. We all know this isn’t the sole reason for my abysmal lack of composure, or even the main reason for it, but they’re both kind enough to tacitly redirect their attention. Tom finally speaks his first words since my outburst. “How did Paul react? Do you think he will jump ship?”
I feel my mouth twist sourly. How typical of Tom to be able to set aside my diatribe and focus. It forces me to respond with a civility I still don’t feel. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, not yet anyway. We’ve got two very prestigious contracts . . . but if the rumors escalate and we lose one of those, then yes, he’s Paul, he’d jump ship.” I shrug. “He was upset I hadn’t told him about it.” I take a sip of the wine then look at both of them curiously. “Have you guys told anyone about all of this?”
Tom shakes his head. “It’s hardly something I want to bring up on the trading floor. I can just imagine the fun they’d have . . .” He grimaces, no doubt imagining the taunts that would inevitably haunt him for the rest of his career. As a mob crowd, traders are not known for their sensitivity. “And I don’t want to worry my folks. I’m not sure Seb has mentioned it to his parents, either, unless it’s to get a recommendation of a lawyer from his dad.”
“I spoke to a couple of girls at work,” says Lara, “but never any details. I certainly didn’t mention your name, if that’s what you’re—”
I shake my head. “God, no. I was just curious.” Curious as to whether my reluctance to talk about it is another sign of too much solitude, or actually perfectly normal.
Tom is still analyzing. His eyes are fixed on the falling darkness outside the kitchen window as he scratches his head thoughtfully. The clouds are now inky smudges against a marginally paler sky. “And this chap, Mark Jenners—”
“Jeffers.”
“Mark Jeffers told Paul you were about to be arrested?”
“So I understand.”
Tom is frowning. “Just you.” I shrug. “Maybe it’s nothing but Chinese whispers, but it seems a bit odd. You couldn’t put it together from just the newspaper articles, I don’t think. Our names have never been mentioned.”
I nod. “That’s what I thought.”
Lara’s cheeks are flushed and her eyelids a little droopy. The glass or two that she had earlier, plus the large one Tom poured for her, are taking their toll. “Big mouth for a lawyer,” she comments, finishing in a catlike yawn that she neatly smothers. “Aren’t they supposed to be discreet? And aren’t you supposed to butter up your headhunting firm, not spread scurrilous rumors about them? I can’t imagine this has you and Paul dying to find him a good placement.”
It’s another of Lara’s unexpectedly perceptive moments, though she hasn’t followed through to the implications. Tom’s gaze and mine jump to lock together, and for a moment it’s like the darkened corridor never happened, like I’ve never ever doubted him, and I can see exactly what he’s thinking. “But who?” I say to him.
“I don’t know.” Tom shakes his head, then frowns again. “I can’t see who could possibly benefit.”
“Who what?” asks Lara, thoroughly lost.
“Who put him up to it,” I explain. “You’re right, it’s extremely odd behavior. So either he’s an irredeemable gossip, or someone put him up to it.” I think for a bit. “I can take a look in his file and ask Paul about him. If he’s known to be the town crier then maybe it’s just incredibly bad luck that he’s got hold of this.”
Tom turns his attention to the oven. The last few moments have stripped away some of my distrust, or perhaps my growing exhaustion has done that—suspicion is so damn tiring. Things would be so much simpler if Tom was on my side. I’m almost sure he is; I’m almost sure Tom is Tom and all the rest of it is just noise. It’s certainly what I want to believe. “That night . . . with Severine,” I start hesitantly. Tom looks up in the act of removing the pizzas, with a lightness in his eyes that warms me: he recognizes the olive branch. “At first I thought—well, I thought she went to the bus depot the next morning, so I thought it was nothing to do with all of us. Then afterward, when Modan said it wasn’t her, then I started thinking. And the thing is, I don’t know what time Seb came to bed. I was pretty upset, and pretty drunk, to be honest; I think I just passed out, so I really don’t know. But then Seb was really insistent that he was there all night . . .” Lara and Tom are both watching me, letting the words run out of me. “And he and Caro are acting so strangely, so . . . complicit, I actually wondered if they were shagging, but I think actually—I think it’s all to do with this. With Severine.” I take a deep breath, looking at Tom. If I say this it becomes possible. If I say this, I can never take it back. “So I guess I’ve been wondering if Seb killed her—by accident—and if Caro helped cover it up.”
I hear Lara mutter, “Jesus,” and in my peripheral vision she reaches for the wine bottle, but I’m focused on Tom. He nods calmly. Thoughtfully. He’s not surprised, and by now I’m not surprised about that.
“Caro,” he says. He’s speaking dispassionately, simultaneously carving up the slightly burned pizzas with a circular cutter, as if we’re discussing interest rates or car insurance. “Not me for the cover-up?”
In the moment I am unable to think of anything to say but the truth. “It could have been you. But like you said, I don’t think you would have had enough time to manage it without Lara suspecting something. And . . .”
“What?” His cutting of the pizza continues unhurried, and his question is casual, but his eyes on me are anything but.
I shrug again. “I guess I think that if it had been you, it would have been a better cover-up.”
“Thank you, I think,” he says dryly, but the tension has left him, and a smile lurks round his mouth.
“Was it such a bad cover-up?” asks Lara. “It took ten years for the body to be found.”
Severine has perched her bottom on the granite surface beside the sink. She crosses her legs and supports her upper body with her arms braced behind her. She doesn’t shock me with her sudden appearances anymore. I wonder if I would miss her if she were to go wherever ghosts go when they’re done haunting.
“If it was a random stranger, then it’s a poorly executed cover-up that just got lucky,” says Tom. “You’d have to expect the well to be searched sometime early on, and a stranger wouldn’t know it was due to be filled in soon. But we knew that. Even so, even with it being filled in, you’d have to think it would be searched sooner rather than later.”
“What would you have done?” I ask curiously.
“Taken your car keys and dumped her somewhere far away,” he says promptly, so promptly that I know he’s thought about this before.
“Modan asked about cars . . .” I trail off. There’s a tendril of something in my brain that I can’t quite catch. Severine has a cigarette in her hand now. She blows out smoke in a slow, languid breath, her eyes fixed on me, as dark and unreflective as always.
“We’re really considering this, then?” says Lara to no one in particular. “That it could have been Seb? One of us?” There’s nothing to say to that. She reaches for a slice of pizza, then pauses with it partway to her mouth to remark, “If Caro was involved, it would have to be for Seb. I can’t imagine her doing that for anyone else.” She thinks for a moment more, then gestures with the pizza. “Caro and Seb. God, I hope he’s not that stupid.”
“He’s pretty stupid at times, but even so . . .” Tom grimaces, but then shakes his head. They’re both sneaking wary glances at me. The instinct not to talk about Seb in front of me has become so ingrained over the years that they’re struggling to shake it. Tom shakes his head again. “I’m sure he’s not. He must know it would mean too much to her.”
“Has everybody always known that?” I ask hesitantly. “I don’t think I did back then—did I miss it? I knew she didn’t like me going out with Seb, but I thought she just didn’t like me.”
“She didn’t like you,” Tom says, not without humor, at the same time as Lara says, “She still doesn’t like you.”
A smile curls my lips despite myself. “No, really, guys, don’t beat around the bush on my account.” Tom grins and Lara giggles. “I knew she didn’t like me, but I didn’t think it was me so much as what I represent—or what I don’t represent. I didn’t go to the right school, I didn’t spend my summers in Pony Club and winters in Verbier, I don’t have the right accent.”
“Val d’Isère,” says Tom. I roll my eyes. How is it that we’re now back at this easy ebb and flow? Surely there has to be a reckoning at some point? “But I take your point: she’s a snob. Of course she wouldn’t like you. But especially not since you were dating Seb.”
“You’re right, though; she’s more obvious now,” Lara observes.
I munch on the pizza and let this marinate. The trick is to take in the new without polluting the old, and I don’t think I’ve got the hang of it: it’s too easy to project what I know now on what I remember from then. I remember Seb; I remember the faint disbelief I carried around inside me that Seb—silver-spooned, silver-tongued, golden-hued Seb—that he was with me. Part of me expected all girls to want him. And Seb . . . well, Seb expected it, too; he took it as his right, and any suggestion that he encouraged it was instantly labeled “jealousy.” I decided early on that I would not allow him to brand me with that, but that required a lot of hard work and, in retrospect, willful ignorance. Perhaps it’s no wonder I dismissed Caro’s long-held unrequited love too lightly.
I finish my slice before I break the companionable silence. “Anyway, we’ve strayed from the point. Tom, what do you think happened? You’ve always known more than us.”
He doesn’t dispute it. “I was actually trying not to drag you guys into it.”
“We’re pretty firmly mired in it all now.”
“Speak for yourself,” yawns Lara. “I’m sure I’m off the hook.”
I give her arm a gentle poke. “So much for solidarity. Well, I’m pretty firmly mired in it all, at least.”
He doesn’t dispute that, either.
“You saw something,” Lara prompts.
He nods. “I did. I . . .” A loud buzz interrupts him. He cocks his head and turns toward his door. “Probably a mistake. A drunk or something.” The buzzer sounds again, in three short blasts then a long hold. “A highly obnoxious drunk.” He crosses the kitchen quickly and exits to the hall. We hear him speaking tersely to the intercom by his front door. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” comes an unmistakable voice, unexpectedly loud through the speaker. Lara’s guilt-filled eyes fly to mine, which no doubt display the same. Speak of the devil . . . “Let me up. I’m the glad bearer of tidings—the bearer of glad tidings. Or something . . .”
“Come on up then.” Tom sounds resigned. He reappears in the doorway of the kitchen. “Seb,” he says unnecessarily.
Lara makes a face. “Definitely an obnoxious drunk, then. Though who am I to talk, after all this wine.” She slides down the stool and turns for her bag and coat. “I’m going to have to leave you to it.”
“I’ll come with you.” But I’m still perched on the stool, anchored by the same one ankle.
“Stay,” Tom says quickly. “I’ll get rid of him.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Charming. Whatever happened to blood being thicker than water?”
“Doesn’t apply when the blood is thinned by alcohol. He’ll probably have to slope home to Alina soon anyway.”
Lara is not too sleepy to have missed this exchange: I see her eyes dart back and forth between us as she pulls her coat on, but her face is carefully expressionless. “Call me tomorrow,” she says to me neutrally. “You can fill me in on the outcome of the rest of this Nancy Drew session.”
And so I stay.