“I suppose a few days.”
“This site says it can be detected in the hair for up to three months!”
He glances around nervously.
“Elizabeth, I think you need to calm down. Surely, your school doesn’tdrug testyou. And your publisher won’t for sure.” He chuckles. “Besides, absinthe, marijuana—it’s all bloody par for the course in our business. Do you think Hemingway ever cared about drug tests?”
“It’s not that. There’s so much more at stake.” I call Henry, but he’s still not picking up.
“Elizabeth...” He puts his hands gently on my arms and makes me look at him. “I don’t know what’s going on here exactly. But one gummy will be flushed out of your system by the time you get back to the US.”
“But the hair sample...”
I raise my phone.
“Stop googling. You’re just going to upset yourself more.”
“But...”
I’m about to argue, but I see his point. This panic is only a bridge to nowhere. I need to wait until I hear back from Henry. I slow my breathing while August watches me carefully.
“Better?” he asks.
“I think so.”
We wait around a few more minutes until our guide shows up. I’m sorely disappointed that he’s an anemic grad student who looks like he leads this tour with about as much gusto as his DoorDash gig.
After collecting everyone’s ticket, the guide stands on a wobbly stool so our tour group of about twenty can see him and begins in a monotone, “So here we are about ready to start our tour about the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper, who went on his murderous killing spree one hundred and thirty years ago...”
“I can’t believe he’s reading from acard,” I whisper in August’s ear. I’m still not quite feeling the gummy, but I anticipate it kicking in soon. My stomach still churns a little with worry over taking it. But I try to push it from my mind and enjoy the tour.
“Bloody hell. This wanker is rubbish,” August groans.
We follow along near the back of the group until we reach Mitre Square.
The guide stands on his stool and fumbles with the cards. “Now here we are at the scene of the murder of Catherine Eddowes. This was the night of the double murders. Scotland Yard...”
“Never mind this was one of the moregruesomeof the murders!” August interjects. He describes dramatically the postmortem examination of Eddowes and how the Ripper taunted Scotland Yard by keeping one step ahead of vigilante policemen.
“It all happened against the background of the late Victorian period, the approaching fin de si?cle, with glorious rebels like Virginia Woolf and Oscar Wilde. It was a time of rapid change and progress, where the world lurched and whirled forward! It was a time of phonographs, railroads. Industries burgeoned all over, andLondonwas the center of it all. But the change was too fast for some. Andhere...” August waves dramatically around us. “Here was a forgotten place of gritty cobblestone streets, shadowy brickyards, and gaslight. It was a hardscrabble life in these parts, terribly easy to fall through the cracks or slip away, never to be found...”
“Wait!” an older woman interrupts. “Are you A.D. Hemmings?”
“Who?” her heavily mustached male companion asks in a thick Cockney accent.
“You know, Ralph—A.D. Hemmings,the gent who writes those slash-’em-up murder mysteries. I love that Inspector Hall.” She pauses and giggles. “That inspector. He can get into my knickers anytime.”
“Oh mygod,” a young attractive woman wearing a lavender cardigan exclaims, staring at her phone and then at August. “Yes, he looks just like him. Are you really him?” she asks, blue eyes sparkling.
“Guilty,” August admits, trying hard to look modest.
“Well, he’s doing a bloody good job, ’ere,” the woman says.“Can’t he just finish the tour? Ee’s got more flair thanyou.” She stares rudely at the student-guide.
The guide shrugs. “Sure. As long as I get the gratuity.”
“It’s a deal!” August says, leaping onto the stool.
Only I can tell in the courtyard shadows that he’s a touch high, blue eyes darkening and a blush spreading on his cheeks.
