“Regent’s Park.”
Sadie scowled. “You make a lousy delinquent.”
“You don’t have to come along.”
“Obviously, I do, or this will be the worst ditching ever.”
Sadie tossed a barrage of inconsequential questions into my lap as the bus took us toward the park. I was certain they were leading up to what she really wanted to ask me.
Yes, I supposed we were dating. No, he was not my boyfriend. No, I had not ingested any of his basement experiments that might possibly have been a love potion. No, I did not believe in love potions. The park was where we met. No, I would not take her to the exact spot so she could check it for our “love vibe.” And, finally, yes, he was a decent enough kisser, and no, I would not tell her every detail of every kiss.
My smile only faltered on her final question. “I don’t suppose you’ll be telling me what has happened to your face?”
I had opened my mouth to answer before realizing what she’d asked, then promptly closed it. When she hadn’t asked first thing, I’d been sure my makeup had done its job. I should’ve known it wouldn’t mask the swelling.
“Didn’t think so.”
She never pressed the hard questions. Maybe because I rarely answered them. This time I almost did, but then the bus pulled up to the Regent’s Park stop, and I said only, “It wasn’t Sherlock.”
She nodded, unsatisfied, but seemed ready to leave it there for now. I made immediately for the park entrance, with Sadie trailing behind. It hadn’t occurred to me, until we were actually entering the park, that somewhere in the confines, the latest crime scene was probably still marked off—that there was a slim possibility there might even be something left to see. But I was at the park to find a different clue.
I started a direct route to the Patel scene, but one of the picnic tables that flanked the main path was covered in delinquents. That’s what my father would’ve called them. Mum would’ve corrected him, said they were just bored and maybe a little misguided, that they could use the guiding hand of a proper police officer. Then my parents would’ve exchanged a look that I, to this day, do not understand.
I watched a couple of older women in their matching velour walking suits pass by the boys. One of them cupped his hands around his mouth and cried out, “Munters!”
The boy sitting on the table was flicking open a switchblade and then folding it shut over and over again. He was the only one who didn’t snicker at the insult. The ladies acted like they didn’t hear it. But I knew they did. The one in pink pulled at her jacket, like she could make it cover more of her, and the other stood up taller as she sucked her stomach in.
A boy in a bright orange jersey waved a dismissive hand in their direction. “Park’s full of ’em today. Not even a passable among ’em.”
Which was unfortunately when they turned their attention our way. We were still a ways off when a boy with a cap pulled low over his eyes nudged the one with the switchblade and pointed in our direction.
“Jackie spoke too soon. Lookie there.”
Jackie, who was apparently the one in the orange, stepped forward just as I looked away at the trees. “That one there’s passable, but her friend here’s perfectly fuckable.”
The boys all laughed and one of them hooted. I really didn’t know or care which way I’d been classified. I was determined not to show any kind of response, and even tempered my expression and the speed of my walking to prove it.
“Come on, luv! Don’t be shy. I got a big one for ya!” The one in the cap grabbed his crotch as we walked by, which I also ignored, though I couldn’t see how far behind me Sadie was.
“Oy! I’m talking to you, slag! Cold bitch.”
“Shut your hole!” Sadie shouted back, which was when I turned and noticed she was trembling.
Switchblade boy pressed the button on his knife, which snicked open. “Fuckable number one’s a Yank! Always wanted to ride a Yank. Wanna come for a ride, babe?”
Sadie turned back toward me, like we were supposed to ignore them and walk on, but the look on her face stopped me cold. I felt that burning in the pit of my stomach I hadn’t felt all day—hadn’t felt since my father . . . It propelled me toward them. I couldn’t stop the smile that formed either, or the heat of the glare I gave the switchblade boy. He must have noticed it too, because he folded the blade shut and set it down next to him on the table.
“Apologize,” I said.
“You want some too, bitch? Cuz I’ve got plenty to go around.”
I slowly stepped closer, heel to toe, smile still in place, and when I got so close I could have rested my hands on his still splayed knees, I affected the sultriest voice I could. “You’re asking what I want now? I want you to apologize to my friend for being a crude, small-minded, pathetic little asshole who can’t keep his moron mouth shut. That’s what I want.”