Sherlock continued his study of the space above our heads. “Short for what?”
“Moriarty,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t have it in me to play his game that night. “And, before you ask, that is my surname. My given name is James.”
“James Moriarty.”
“It’s a family name, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Not Jaime or something more feminine?”
I stared at him silently.
“Yes, as you said. It’s a fault of mine, always wanting to get to the truth of the matter.” He said it as though he didn’t think it was a fault in the slightest. “But surely there must be a story.”
“Really? Sherlock wishes to discuss odd names with me?”
“And a point to Miss Moriarty.”
“Must everything be scored?” I asked, though it’s possible I preened a bit internally. “Could we not merely be two strangers introducing ourselves in the park?”
“You started it.”
I held back a laugh but not my smile. “You’re an idiot. Truly.”
Sherlock smiled widely, and it changed his whole face. He looked much younger when he smiled. “No one’s ever called me that.” He stared down at the ground, still smiling, like he was suddenly self-conscious. “That’s not the truth. My brother, Mycroft, uses the word ‘intolerable,’ but I think perhaps the meaning’s the same.”
“Your brother is named Mycroft?”
“Yes, James. Yes, he is.”
I made a face but refrained from rolling my eyes. “Did your mother despise you both from birth? Honestly.”
His smile dropped. “No, she did not.”
I was amazed at how quickly his mood shifted from a rather awkward warmth to cool indifference, and again at how guilty I felt for saying the thing that set him off. I hardly knew this boy. I really shouldn’t have minded his moods. He stared out over the water, just as I had done before, and his fingers fidgeted in the pocket of his long wool coat. But then he pursed his lips and stood upright. “Come along, then. I’ve something to show you.”
“I have to get back. My brothers.”
He started walking toward the path as if he hadn’t heard my protest. “You’ll want to see this,” he called over his shoulder.
Inexplicably, I followed him. Maybe it was because I was curious what someone like Sherlock would think I’d want to see. Maybe it was because he made me smile on a “Memories of You” night. Mostly, it was because I didn’t want to go home.
Chapter 4
Sherlock’s long strides made it difficult for me to catch up to him but he never slowed, nor did he look back to see if I was there, not even when his path took us across Longbridge and up toward the zoo. I caught him before the circle of police tape came into view, however, and then stopped when we were still a ways from it.
“Really? We’re to be gawkers at a crime scene? This is what you thought I couldn’t miss?”
“We’ll not be mere gawkers.” He kept walking, so I was forced to jog to catch him. “We will observe.”
“Semantics,” I insisted, following him into the trees that grew thicker as we progressed.
“No.” He turned on me, pointing back to where a growing crowd gathered at the perimeter. “Those people come to see a spectacle. I come for a purely intellectual pursuit.”
I glanced around us. “My father is police.”
“Police?” He briefly studied my face, as if checking to make sure I had the mark. “Everything about you is a surprise.”
“That’s what it means to be a stranger.”
He tilted his head so that I couldn’t see his eyes in the sporadic lights that filtered through the trees from the crime scene to where we stood. “Perhaps. But then I’ve met so few strangers in my life.”
I let that go for expediency, and because I was sure the more he spoke, the more home would seem preferable to his exasperating eccentricities. “Whatever. I can’t be seen here.”
“Then you will not be seen.” He leaned forward to meet my eyes in a challenge and turned to resume his trek.
I had no excuse for catching up with him and every excuse to walk the other way. The futures that played through my mind all seemed to end with my father’s livid ranting and my apologies, but I followed Sherlock’s circuitous route, deeper into the shadows toward the far end of the crime scene. I hated myself for following, but I did it. Still, the third time his route took us through a bush that smacked at my shins, I gave in to my impulse to growl at him.
“For someone who doesn’t want to be seen, you make an awful lot of noise.”
I glared at the back of his head but said nothing more. For a minute or so. I had just decided to complain about how far we’d wandered from the actual scene when Sherlock crouched down next to a tree and peered around it. I walked up behind him with my hands on my hips.
“What now?”