“Gritty,” he observes. “I tell you what, that girl’s got a talent for botching tea in new and inventive ways.”
“And yet you’ll never refuse a cup,” says Grant.
Lesley smiles. “How right you are, Grant Jeté.”
• • •
I DON’T KNOWwhy I thought the Fake House would be some kind of ultra-modern steel box on the outskirts of town; instead, we’re strolling through residential streets that only get quainter as we go. We pass doors painted robin’s-egg blue and lemon yellow and raspberry red, bicycles in front gardens, pink camellias in bloom. Everything feels breezy and new, fresh as the first clean page of a still-crisp book.
It could be that spring is in the air, or that we’re on the cusp of a crime-solving milestone. But more likely, it’s about the guy holding my hand.
Grant and I have fallen behind, happy to put some distance between ourselves and Lissa, who has spent the majority of this walk stealing glances at us and then giddily elbowing Lesley. Now they’ve stopped down the street—Lesley reclining on a wrought-iron bench, sunlight glinting off his aviators, and Lissa hopping from foot to foot as if her shoes were made of sparklers.
Grant lets out a long breath. “I do not feel great about this Alistair thing,” he says. “What if he’s Mr. Page? The ringleaderposing as just another clown? He might be capable of a lot worse than he’s let on.”
I try to ignore the unease that thought gives me. “We’ll be fine,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Maybe Alistair just wants to seeyouagain.Iwould, after last night.”
“I don’t know if you remember,” he says, trying not to smile, “but Alistair was specifically not invited to that part of the night.”
“Beforethat,” I say, heat rising to my cheeks.
Lissa must have clocked my blushing, even from half a block away. She truly can’t contain herself, dancing around like she has to pee.
No, wait. She holds out an urgent hand to Lesley, bouncing as he digs his keys from his jacket pocket, and bolts the moment he places them in her palm. Shedoeshave to pee.
I return to Grant. “Maybe he wants a rematch, or wants you to teach him better swordsmanship. Or maybe he just wants to eat popcorn and sigh while you flash those magnificent forearms and do sexy swordsy things.”
Grant tamps down a grin. “Magnificent forearms? Go on.”
“I’m just saying—give me clanging metal and a rolled-up sleeve, and I’m done for.”
“Interesting,” he says, mischief flashing in his eyes. “So if I just …” He pulls away and makes a show of pushing up his sweatshirt sleeves with a great deal of impish bravado.
“Oh, Grant,please, we’re in public,” I say in a scandalized whisper. I’m about two-thirds joking. Maybe half.
“Sorry to interrupt,” calls Lesley from his perch down the street. “But if you lovebirds have had enough of making googly-boogly eyes at each other, I reckon we could do with getting a move on.”
“We’d be a lot faster ifsomeone had let me drive the Jag I was promised,” I shout back.
He waves me off. Grant stifles a snort-laugh, then loops hisarm around me as we continue on. I twine mine around his waist, unable to keep from smiling.
When we catch up to Lesley, he briefs us on what to expect. Alistair is locked up in what Lesley describes as a makeshift prison cell, although it sounds to me more like an apartment that would fetch a couple grand in Boston. It’s equipped with a bed, a toilet, even a TV.
“He can’t reach the controls, though,” says Lesley. “I left CBeebies running on loud. I figure it’ll either break him down or rehabilitate him. Anyone’s guess.”
Lissa promised to wait for us before going in to see Alistair. She’s probably warming up her Fergie impression as we speak, just in case he hesitates to hold up his end of the bargain.
We finally arrive at the end of the quiet road, and there it is—the Fake House, which looks anything but. It has all the makings of a well-loved home—curtains in every window, a collection of blue-glazed pots sprouting greenery out front. When we step inside I have no doubt we’ll be enveloped by more of that quirky, homey Lesleyness I’ve come to know and love.
We don’t get a chance.
Everything goes sideways—that’s all I know at first. That and the blast of light and heat and sound ripping from the house, so loud it goes quiet.
The air is ringing. It takes a few seconds to clear my vision before I can see anything around me—cement strewn with shards of glass and jagged bits of wood. I’m on the ground, my lungs in overdrive. Smoke is everywhere. My head aches. I try to push myself up and a sharp pain spikes in my palm; a piece of glass pokes out, blood streaming down my hand. I pick it out with trembling fingers, throw it aside, stagger dizzily to my feet. The world rocks like a ship beneath me.Grant. Lesley.I try to call out, trapped in the ash-thickened air like an insect in a web, and then a storm surge rushes through me and I’m sick on the sidewalk.
Only when I come up for air do I notice the hand reaching for my shoulder. Relief cuts through the nausea like a hit of oxygen. He’s coughing and scraped up from temple to cheek, but Grant is all in one piece.
“Okay?” is all I can croak.
