“No, no. Please. Go ahead.”
“Jesus Christ.” Archer groaned. “This is by far the worst moment of the entire trip. No contest. It’s not even close. If this was a race, you two lovingly interrupting each other and then sweetly apologizing for lovingly interrupting each other would be so far ahead in the Worst Part of the Trip race, it would—”
“What did you do?”
Startled, they all looked up. Dennis Drake, who last week had seemed far younger than sixty-three, now looked a hale and hearty ninety. He had a crop of beard stubble; his bright yellow jumpsuit seemed muted and tired.
“Uncle D—”
“Don’t call me that! Stop pretending this is about family!” he roared. COs were running toward him and the other family was shrinking back from the shrieking demon in yellow. Angela felt like shrinking back herself. Even his hair seemed outraged, standing stiffly in a prison buzz cut.
“I can’t see you! I cannot make it any fucking clearer and you still won’t listen!”
“Mr. Drake, step off.” Angela realized that Jason had moved in front of her and that Archer had grabbed Leah’s elbow and yanked her behind him. “Now.”
“Let me go!” he screamed. “Drop it, all of you, drop it and let me go! Don’t.” He shook off the first CO and Angela was sorry to see it was Maller. Oh, hell, he might not have gotten in trouble for letting us in before, but now . . .
“You nosy bitch.” Is he talking to me? He’s never said anything so awful. Yes, he sure is. My uncle has qualified my efforts to help him as the actions of a nosy bitch. A lot of firsts this month.
“Please,” was all she could manage. Could that thin, thready voice be hers? And please what? Please stop? Please be nice? Please go back in time and don’t kill your brother?
She didn’t know.
“If you don’t stop.” He cut himself off, making a visible effort to get control. But the rest of it came out through his teeth. “I will fucking stab somebody and get sent to solitary, do you understand?”
“Dad!” From Archer, who had been so shocked his vocal cords had temporarily locked. Which was shocked indeed. Jacky won’t believe it when I tell him. Also I will never tell any of this to anyone. “You ungrateful piece of shit!”
Dennis had no eyes for his son, only for her. “Are you listening, Angela? Because you never have. I will kill someone to stay in solitary if you don’t back off. Then it won’t matter who pulls what strings. It won’t matter how much more of your life you’ve pissed away, you won’t be able to see— Funnnkkk!” That last was muffled, as three COs had piled on and Dennis was now howling into the floor.
It was quiet. No, it wasn’t. The COs were talking to each other; the horrified other family were backed in the corner, whispering; and Archer was saying something—of course. Oh, and Jason’s lips were moving. And his face was pointed at her. So he was probably talking to her. Might be time to tune back in.
“—all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” Nothing but the truth. She’d been shouted at before. By experts.
“I take it back,” Archer managed. “That was the worst part of the trip. But the lovey-dovey stuff was right up there. So, y’know, just to keep that in perspective.”
Angela made a sound that was probably a laugh, if crows could laugh. That’s what Archer was going for and she wanted to oblige and also, what was wrong with her legs? They were slacking off, that’s what. They were trying to take a break, but no time for that. She had stuff to do. Right? Research? Or something? Maybe she’d sit down. Yes. Oh, that was much better. She could use a break. And she wasn’t the only one. They should all sit down. Right?
“Angela?”
“I’m just fine. How are you?”
“Easy,” Jason was saying to her temple. She could feel his arms around her and it should have been wonderful. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. Let’s get you off your feet.”
“I’m not off my feet?” That was problematic. “Yes, let’s get me off them. Leah? You okay?”
Cool fingers were on her wrist. “I’m fine, Angela.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“I’m worried you might faint.”
“You might faint.” Lame. Best she could do. Plus it was a lie. Leah would never keel over because someone yelled at her. She’d fought off a murderer, and exposed lots of others. Clients who didn’t like what she told them sometimes tried to attack her. So this was nothing by comparison. Nothing.
The more she thought about it, the more the differences between them were glaring. Leah Nazir wouldn’t be a trembling wreck if someone yelled at her in a Visitation Room. She wouldn’t feel like a wonderful picnic lunch was going to put in an abrupt reappearance. She—
“Oh, hell,” Angela managed, somehow making it to the garbage can in time.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SEPTEMBER 1949
CAMPDEN, ENGLAND
On Sunday, Augusta Harrison read about her own murder in the paper.
It must be a joke, was her first shocked thought. Like those fake newspapers you can buy where the headline proclaims you King of the Universe. Or perhaps it’s someone with the same name as me.
As it turned out, it wasn’t a joke and it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. A year after she’d moved to Paris, then London, a man named John Perry found a pile of her bloody clothes in the living room of an abandoned house, and promptly contacted the authorities.
The police went looking for her and, of course, she could not be found. Augusta had only lived in Campden for a few months before moving on; her mother used to claim she had Gypsy blood. She hadn’t formed any real ties and did not notify anyone of her departure. She had gone to Paris—delightful, but ultimately too expensive—and then London, settling into a rented townhouse in the West End a few days past. Only half of her belongings had been unpacked when she read about her murder.
The clothes Perry had found weren’t just bloody; they had been repeatedly slashed with the kind of knife found in Mr. Perry’s kitchen. When Mr. Perry’s lawyer pointed out it was the kind of knife found in nearly every kitchen in England, the jury had not been swayed.
Worse still, Mr. Perry had been convicted of assault three years earlier at age nineteen (for which he served twenty-seven months), and had an IQ of seventy-eight. Once the bobbies had finished with him—which took days—he implicated not only himself but his mother and brother. The entire family had been convicted and would hang in a matter of days.
She sent a telegram to the Gloucestershire police.
Nothing.
She packed, bought a train ticket, went back to Campden, a town she had ardently hoped never to see again. Walked into the constable’s station. Announced herself.
Nothing.
Found Mr. Perry’s lawyer, who was engaged in dying from sepsis after his appendix burst and was, understandably, distracted.
She went back to the police and explained again. And as she perhaps should have foreseen, rather than admitting a mistake had been made, they decided that, somehow, the mistake was hers.
Because—and was it not absurd that this would cost a man and his family their lives?—she wasn’t like other girls. She had a history. She didn’t like staying in one spot very long, that was one thing. The thought of binding herself to a man and a house and his children for decades was horrifying, that was another. And she liked to drink. And she liked the idea of men, and the things an open-minded couple could do in a bedroom with the blinds drawn. Only the daily domestic details smacked of tedium.
Like this: She was small and red-haired and fair-skinned and dark-eyed and pretty and looked sweet, but wasn’t. Men wanted to take care of her, and were piqued when they discovered she neither wanted nor needed them. She liked to fuck and she liked her freedom, not always in that order.