You Owe Me a Murder(12)
I ignored him and dodged past roller bags and people stopping suddenly in the center of the walkway to check their phones, but even when I bopped up onto my tiptoes I couldn’t spot Nicki. I’d missed her.
The customs hall was packed. A cacophony of different languages fought for dominance as people talked loudly to be heard, but everyone stayed in tidy lines waiting for a turn. I rubbed my neck and caught a sniff of myself. I needed a shower.
I kicked my bag forward as I shuffled one person closer to my turn. The Student Scholars program would be waiting outside the hall to whisk us to an international student residence hall. In the brochure, it looked a far cry from a Four Seasons hotel—?but at least it would have a bed. I sent up a silent prayer that they wouldn’t do any kind of welcome reception. I wanted a nap and a shower before I did anything else.
That’s when I spotted Nicki ahead of me and a few lines over. She waved. I stepped toward her.
A security guard moved in front of me. “You need to stay in line,” she said, motioning at the rope that kept us in our section.
“My friend is over there—?”
“That line is for UK residents only,” the security guard droned.
“Okay, but I just need to get her number.”
The guard’s mouth pulled tight. “That line is for residents only,” she repeated. “You can catch up with your friend later.”
I stepped back into place, trying to figure out how I could tell Nicki, charades style, to wait for me outside the hall, but she was already at the customs desk sliding over her passport. The universe might have put her in my way to turn things around, but it clearly didn’t plan to keep us in touch. I didn’t know her last name or any way to reach her.
Maybe it was better this way. We didn’t really have much in common. I felt uncomfortable with the idea that we’d stolen the vodka and risked drinking it on the flight. That wasn’t like me. But I wasn’t sorry I’d met her. We were strangers, but she’d changed everything for me. I’d come on this trip because I’d felt as if I couldn’t let my mom down again and because I was ashamed I’d gotten myself into the situation at all, but it was up to me how I handled the rest of the trip. I wasn’t going to waste it.
Five
August 16
15 Days Remaining
The residence hall had a giant light hanging in the main stairwell, a wrought-iron monstrosity. Somewhere a haunted castle was missing a lighting fixture. I’d expected everything in England to be old-fashioned—?fussy floral prints, tweeds, and country plaids. Labrador dogs lazing by stone fireplaces with stern butlers lurking in corners ready to address every whim while silently judging you. But it wasn’t that straight-forward.
We were staying in Metford House in South Kensington, a large stately brick building that was for international students studying in the city. Inside it was a weird mix of modern art and outdated everything else. The dark green carpet looked as though it had been installed when Queen Victoria was on the throne. The main lobby had wood-paneled walls, but the furniture was a mix of a modern leather sectional and tartan-patterned wingback chairs that looked as if they were from a big-box store. The paintings on the walls all seemed to have been done by a toddler with anger issues. There was a desk across from the front door and then the huge staircase that led up to the rooms.
I stood on the landing for my floor and sniffed. I could smell some kind of air freshener, a spicy and citrus scent that was doing its best to hide the smell of mildew and too many people living in a small space.
As I headed to the lobby, I stumbled and grabbed the banister to keep from pitching down the staircase. The steps seemed too shallow. I felt as if I wanted to take one and a half steps every time I moved.
“Look where you’re going,” an Irish voice called out as he dodged past me carrying a huge basket of laundry up from the basement.
I moved to apologize, but he was already taking the steps two at a time. I felt out of sorts, as if things weren’t quite clicking. Jet lag made sudden sense to me. My body was in London, but my brain was still somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean scrambling to keep up. It was as if I weren’t fully connected to reality.
I barely remembered arriving at Metford a few hours ago. We’d been met outside the customs hall at the airport by the Student Scholars representative. Our guide would make sure no one in our group got lost and that we saw everything cultural so our parents could justify the trip as educational. Tasha was tall and willowy and wore her hair in a huge Afro like a halo around her head. I guessed she was in her late twenties, not much older than us, but enough that she had an air of confidence none of us could replicate. She had on a tight-fitting leather jacket, distressed jeans, and what seemed like a thousand silver bangles on one arm. Compared to our group of teenagers—?unwashed, jet-lagged, and bleary-eyed—?she looked like a different creature. We stared at her as if she were an alien as she directed us toward a large van.
Kendra in our group asked if she could touch Tasha’s hair.
Tasha pulled back out of her reach. “Are you a stylist in your spare time?”
Kendra shook her head.
“Then keep your hands to yourself.”
I snorted at her reply and Kendra shot me a hot, angry look. I tried to communicate that I hadn’t meant to laugh to be mean; Tasha’s comment had just struck me as funny. Normally I was the one to make a social faux pas. But Kendra’s lip curled up as though she’d tasted something bad, and I had the sense I’d burned a bridge with her already.