He frowns at me. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
This actually does surprise me. He’s tall, good-looking, employed, and knows his way around a frying pan. All things that would tick a lot of boxes in the dating market.
“There are plenty of other valid reasons not to follow armed strangers out of the country,” he argues. He starts rattling off his laundry list of reasons, which could be titled A What-If for EveryOccasion. What if we lose our jobs. What if this is a trap. What if the plane crashes. What if the cops are onto us and fleeing the country only makes matters worse. What if Lissa and Lesley arenotthe good guys after all but diabolical psychos.
I glance at them through the window. Lesley has ordered another iced latte and is caught in a loop of sipping it, grimacing at the taste, then sipping again. Beside him, Lissa is folding a napkin into a cootie catcher. “They don’t seem diabolical to me.”
I turn to level with Grant. “Look,” I say. “Our best shot at ending this is to be at Anna’s event in London next Monday.One week, okay? That’s all we have to get through with these bozos. Then this is over.”
“That’s more than a week,” Grant says.
“I was rounding. You’ve read about rounding, yes?”
“Do we have to go withthem, though? We could just book our own tickets and not have to offer ourselves up to serial killers.”
“The story’s just going to keep finding us either way,” I point out. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather stick with the people who at leastkind ofknow what’s going on. Also, you’re an adjunct professor and I’m a temp. Are either of us really in a position to shell out for a same-day flight to London when there’s a free ride on the table?”
His jaw tightens again. He’s going to crack a tooth if he’s not careful.
“It’s the only way,” I say. “You know it is.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “A week or so of hell for a lifetime of normal,” he says, weighing it.
I cringe. “A lifetime of normal? Jesus, Grant. A little optimism wouldn’t hurt.”
He frowns again, standing there with his defeated posture and his tired eyes and his khakis. “Thatwasoptimism.”
Well, to each their own.
“So,” I say, “we’re agreed? We’re going to London?”
“We don’t have our passports,” he says, a meager Hail Mary of resistance.
“Speak for yourself. I never leave home without mine.” I lean over to rap on the window by Lesley and Lissa. “We can get yours before we leave.”
Our new comrades look expectantly toward us through the glass, and I nod. Lissa lights up, clapping her hands, and Lesley continues sipping his latte, offering a stoic thumbs-up.
There’s no way of knowing what awaits us in London, but I do know this: one way or another, it will be an adventure. Far be it from me to ever turn down one of those.
CHAPTER TEN
An hour ago, the customs officer asked me the purpose of my visit to London.
“Tourism,” I said.
I suppose it could be the truth, if my idea of tourism were 50 percent horror show, 30 percent glamour, and 170 percent sleep deprivation. All day I’ve felt like a Ping-Pong ball, alternately smacked in the head with luxury and disaster. I spent the first-class flight gorging on canapés and Richard Curtis films while mentally preparing to be murder bait. Sleep was never on the table.
Judging from Grant’s malaise and the glimpses I caught of him white-knuckling his armrest throughout the flight, I don’t think he’s slept either.
After a long, foggy journey in Lesley’s classic black Jaguar, we finally pull over between a private park and a row of town houses. Lesley announces our arrival with a blast of his customAHOOGAhorn.
“Welcome to home base,” he says proudly.
The house is gorgeous, from its topiaries and huge bay windows to the eclectic grandeur inside. The foyer boasts gleaming tile floors, a big winding staircase, and what looks like an antiquegrated elevator down the hall. I make a mental note to be impressed by it all when I’m not a zombie.
Lissa shows us to our rooms, jogging up the stairs with more pep than anyone should have at nearly three a.m. It’s a struggle to keep up with her as she rattles off a spiel about the amenities we’ll find—guest pajamas, fresh linens, espresso machines, antigravity chambers, I don’t know. I’m barely listening, just hoping to catch the wordshorizontal surface you can crash on.
“Here we are,” she says, stopping halfway down the paneled hallway and gesturing to the doors on either side. “If you need anything, just give me a shout. Otherwise, rest up. Lots planned for tomorrow!” At Grant’s intake of breath, she puts up a reassuring hand. “Nothing murdery. Yet. Just briefing, planning, that kind of thing. And a surprise outing! Big fun.” She claps her hands and spins around to bounce back down the stairs, calling back, “Night!”
