He looked unaccountably—or, rather, accountably—thrilled. Without waiting for Theo, he took her by the elbow and steered her down the stairs.
Before she changed her mind, I thought uncharitably.
“Anwen forgot her raincoat.” Watson looked down at me. “You okay?”
I didn’t like being handled as though I were glass. I was aware, however, that I still felt quite a bit like glass. “Tired,” I said. “I’ve taken notes for hours in my head. It’ll take some sorting.”
Theo stumbled back into the living room. He flung out a hand against the wall for balance. “Figures. They leave?”
“They left.” Watson peered at him. “You okay, man?”
“Fine. I’m fine, I—” He put a hand to his stomach.
“Not fine,” Watson said, and when he took a step toward him, Theo took one back.
“Don’t trust her,” he burst out. “Don’t trust Anwen. She’s not who you think she is, and I—oh God,” he said, and he ran into the kitchen. I flinched half a second before it happened: him retching into the kitchen sink. Watson ran over to help him. The sound of running water, of coughing.
I had, thankfully, already done the dishes.
“You,” Watson said, steering Theo back toward the sofa, “sleep here. Bathroom’s that way, you know that. I’ll get you water. Shoes are off? Good. Lay facedown. Good man.”
Within moments, Theo was snoring. “I’ll kip in the chair,” Watson said, throwing the blanket over him. “I’ll check in every few hours, make sure he’s all right.”
“Your accent is back,” I said, charmed despite everything.
“My accent?” Watson smiled. “I didn’t notice. Do you like it?”
“Like home,” I told him. “Always like home.”
He put his arms around my waist. “Anwen, huh.”
“Anwen,” I said. “Or Theo. But more than that—I have so many questions. The precollege suites are for four people, not three. Who was their fourth, last year? Why don’t they mention him?”
Watson lifted his head to look at Theo, prone on the couch. “Some poor fucker who tried to stay out of their way? The three of them are a drama tornado.”
“Perhaps, but it’s something to look into.”
Dr. Larkin’s death. Matilda’s disappearance. I couldn’t see a way the two couldn’t be connected. I couldn’t see how these three maddening people weren’t at the heart of it.
“I’ll go see Sadiq in the morning. Please don’t let Theo choke on his own vomit.”
“The romance,” Watson said. “It never dies.”
Fourteen
IT WAS SOME TIME BEFORE I FELL ASLEEP.
When Dr. Larkin had originally approached me, her worry had been for the health of the Dramatics Society, not her own. She’d wanted her position back as their director, of course, and she’d wanted the attacks to stop. But her main concern had been not knowing who the true target was, whether it was her, her students, or—as tonight’s murder suggested—the institution itself. The killer had had all of last summer to do away with Dr. Larkin, but they waited until now to try. Tonight’s “accident,” then, was meant as a warning—but to who?
Really, I was searching for the identities of both the culprit and the target, which put me out. I was used to having mystery at one end of my case, not both.
One detail I found interesting: a light had fallen from the grid the summer before, though no one had been injured. This killer’s bag of tricks, then, had a bottom. It would be worth nosing around the theater’s lighting rig in the morning.
I didn’t sleep well. As a child, I found the notion romantic, staying up sleeplessly recounting the day’s events. But the world goes warped and strange in the hours before dawn, as the birds, with their voices, remind you how they spend their days loitering above, unseen.
A stranger was sleeping in our living room. My uncle wouldn’t be making eggs on the stove. The boy I loved slept away from me, and I resisted the selfish urge to creep into the other room to wake him, to see what secrets I could glean from him in the dark.
Am I still interesting to you, now that you finally have me the way you wanted? Or, Now that we aren’t running for our lives, is this still enough to keep you?
Around four, I gave it up. The refuse trucks had begun down the road, and I could smell the morning cold and sharp through the window. I put my cigarettes and a pair of tweezers in the pocket of my robe and took my bag to the living room.
“Jamie,” I whispered, rousing him in the armchair. He’d been sleeping all twisted up and tangled; he wouldn’t be able to turn his neck in the morning. “Go to bed. I’ll look after Theo.” He mumbled something like thank you before he made his way to my bedroom, and I took up his post watching Theo drool into a towel he’d balled up into a pillow.
As he slept, I unloaded the scraps I’d collected the last few days—the newspaper pages from the bus, the note from the theater door—touching them only at their edges. Then I went to Anwen’s translucent mackintosh in the closet, and, using my tweezers, retrieved the papers I’d seen in the pockets. Two were receipts, from Blackmarket café and from Pret A Manger, and the last a wrapper from a candy bar. On the coffee table, I lined them up and then turned them over, tweezers in hand.
There. In pencil, on the back of the Pret receipt, a series of numbers. I held it up in the dark: II.ii.87, IV.v.27, III.i.132. Immediately, my brain began running them through as code. Roman numerals corresponding to certain letters? Periods indicating new sentences? Anwen was far more complex than I’d thought.
On the sofa, Theo muttered in his sleep, and I placed an unlit cigarette between my lips and settled in to solve a long, satisfying problem.
It was a full two minutes before I realized she’d jotted down a list of monologues. Act number, scene number, line number—the best pieces to audition for Ophelia, listed out in her spiky hand.
Fine, then. I’d use this list for its intended purpose—squaring the handwriting against the note from the theater. I’m in the sound booth upstairs. Meet me there? it read, so both samples at least used the capital and the lowercase I. But there was no similarity, neither in shape nor in pressure points, the places where she’d set down and lifted her pen as she wrote.
Theo muttered again, and my eyes lit on his messenger bag, toppled over on the rug next to his shoes. But a cursory examination of its contents proved only two things: one, he was a meticulous notetaker in his theater history lectures, and two, he hadn’t left the note on the theater door. The handwriting wasn’t a match in the slightest. I tucked his notebook back in his bag and stretched, feeling a satisfying pop in my shoulders.
The newspaper took only a cursory glance. What I wanted was on the second page of the culture section, in a little column at the bottom. It was an item on this summer’s production of Hamlet—a blurb, nothing more—and a brief profile of Dr. Quigley. Twenty-nine, a London native, educated at St. Genesius (“which makes this new position a homecoming!”), danced, surprisingly, in the chorus of Billy Elliot on the West End straight after university. Then came graduate school, and his new position. “My sister was an actress,” he’d told the paper, “and so I grew up in the theater. There was nothing else I’d rather do.”